Volume XVII
1999
edited by
David T. Runia
Gregory E. Sterling
Edited by
David Jacobson
Ross S. Kraemer
Saul Olyan
Michael L. Satlow
Number 344
THE STUDIA PHILONICA ANNUAL
Studies in Hellenistic Judaism
edited by
David T. Runia
Gregory E. Sterling
T H E ST U D IA P H IL O N IC A A N N U A L
Studies in Hellenistic Judaism
VOLUME XVII
2005
Editors:
David T. Runia
Gregory E. Sterling
Associate Editor
David Winston
Brown University
Providence
THE STUDIA PHILONICA ANNUAL
Studies in Hellenistic Judaism
© 2005
Brown University
ISBN: 1-930675-24-0
ISSN : 1052-4533
THE STUDIA PHILONICA ANNUAL
STUDIES IN HELLENISTIC JUDAISM
Editorial Board
Editors: David T. Runia, Queen’s College, University of Melbourne
Gregory E. Sterling, University of Notre Dame
Associate editor: David Winston, Berkeley
Book review editor: Hindy Najman, University of Toronto
Advisory board
David M. Hay, Atlanta (chair)
Hans Dieter Betz, University of Chicago
Peder Borgen, Oslo
Jacques Cazeaux, CNRS, University of Lyon
Lester Grabbe, University of Hull
Ellen Birnbaum, Cambridge, Mass.
Annewies van den Hoek, Harvard Divinity School
Pieter W. van der Horst, Utrecht University
Jean Laporte, Paris
Burton L. Mack, Claremont
Birger A. Pearson, Escalon, California
Robert Radice, Sacred Heart University, Milan
Jean Riaud, Catholic University, Angers
James R. Royse, Berkeley
Dorothy Sly, University of Windsor
Abraham Terian, St. Nersess Armenian Seminary
Thomas H. Tobin S.J., Loyola University, Chicago
Herold D. Weiss, St. Mary’s College, Notre Dame
The Studia Philonica Annual accepts articles for publication in the area of
Hellenistic Judaism, with special emphasis on Philo and his Umwelt.
Contributions should be sent to the Editor, Prof. G. E. Sterling, Associate Dean of
the Faculty, College of Arts and Letters, 100 O’Shaughnessy, University of Notre
Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556, USA; email: gregory.e.sterling@nd.edu. Please send
books for review to the Book Review Editor, Prof. H. Najman, Dept. of Near and
Middle Eastern Civilizations, University of Toronto, 4 Bancroft Ave, Toronto,
Ontario M5S 1C1, Canada; email: hindy.najman@utoronto.ca.
Contributors are requested to observe the ‘Instructions to Contributors’ located at
the end of the volume. These can also be consulted on the Annual’s website:
http://www.nd.edu/~philojud. Articles which do not conform to these instruc-
tions cannot be accepted for inclusion.
The Studia Philonica Monograph series accepts monographs in the area of
Hellenistic Judaism, with special emphasis on Philo and his Umwelt. Proposals for
books in this series should be sent to Prof. David M. Hay, 1428 Airline Road,
McDonough, GA 30252, USA; email: haydavid@bellsouth.net.
CONTENTS*
ARTICLES
SPECIAL SECTION:
PHILO AND THE TRADITION OF LOGOS THEOLOGY
REVIEW ARTICLES
BIBLIOGRAPHY SECTION
* The editors wish to thank the typesetter Gonni Runia once again for her tireless and
meticulous work on this volume. They also wish to thank Eva Mroczek (Toronto) for her
assistance with the book reviews, Michael Champion (Melbourne) for his assistance
with the bibliography, and Kindalee DeLong for the outstanding work she has done in
the Philo of Alexandria Office at the University of Notre Dame.
The Studia Philonica Annual XVII (2005) 1–32
‘It remained for him to gain a reputation for éndre¤a, nearly the
most important virtue in every polite¤a, and especially in Rome.’1
1 Polybius 31.29.1.
2 E.g., R. M. Rosen, I. Sluiter (edd.), Andreia: Studies in Manliness and Courage in
Classical Antiquity, Mnemosyne Sup. 238 (Leiden 2003). The quotation is from S. Swain,
Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World AD 50–250
(Oxford 1996) 65.
3 ‘In a society where men competed for honor, or were in conflict with each other, there
was an incentive to dispute what courage actually meant and how risk should be
properly faced.’ J. Roisman, ‘The Rhetoric of Courage in the Athenian Orators’, in Rosen
and Sluiter, Andreia, 131.
2 walter t. wilson
4 E.g., N. Loraux, The Invention of Athens: The Funeral Oration in the Classical City
(Cambridge 1986) 172–262; cf. E. Rawson, The Spartan Tradition in European Thought
(Oxford 1969) 12–55.
5 K. Bassi, ‘The Semantics of Manliness in Ancient Greece’, in Rosen and Sluiter,
Andreia, 48.
6 Bassi ‘Semantics of Manliness’ 49, cf. 32–46.
7 Cf., e.g., Aristotle, Eth. nic. 3.6.6–12.
8 I. Sluiter and R. M. Rosen, ‘General Introduction’, in Rosen and Sluiter, Andreia, 1–24.
9 O. van Nijf, ‘Athletics, Andreia and the Askêsis-Culture in the Roman East’, in Rosen
and Sluiter, Andreia, 263–86.
10 M. Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Representation in Ancient Rome (Princeton
1995) xxii. Cf. J. Connolly, ‘Like the Labors of Heracles: Andreia and Paideia in Greek
courage and warfare in philo’s de fortitudine 3
From early on, the question of how philosophical conceptions of the best
life required or bestowed courage was a topic of critical reflection as well.
In his Polite¤a, or Respublica, for example, arguments about éndre¤a figure
prominently in Plato’s grand quest to explain the arrangements by which
both political communities and human souls can be morally good. The
central sections of this dialogue merit attention, at least in outline form, on
account of the profound impact their ‘remodelled version of andreia’ had
on the subsequent history of moral and political thought in Greco-Roman
antiquity.12
Plato assumes that even for the ideal state warfare will be an ongoing
reality. A standing army is required, therefore, to defend the state’s
freedom and train its future leaders. The presence of éndre¤a in the state as
such, he says, will depend not on the manifestation of courage among its
individual citizens, but only among those who serve in the military, an elite
class known as the Guardians, which is distinguished from the larger,
money-making class, the Producers (429B). Given its critical function,
admission to the former group is restricted to the best individuals, who are
selected according to various criteria. Naturally, they must be young, quick,
and strong. They must also demonstrate éndre¤a, of course, though this
must be combined with high-spiritedness (ı yumÒw or tÚ yumoeid°w), by
which Plato denotes a complex cluster of tendencies encompassing fearless-
ness, assertiveness, indignation, and ambition for glory and revenge.13
These tendencies are treated with a certain ambivalence, however, since it is
likely that recruits thus endowed will end up being savage not only to the
Culture under Rome’, in Rosen and Sluiter, Andreia, 290: imperial orators ‘weave
together certain negative stereotypes about teachers’ femininity and passivity into a
subtly new conception of andreia, one that favors diplomacy and endurance over active
risk and daring.’
11 R. M. Rosen and M. Horstmanshoff, ‘The Andreia of the Hippocratic Physician and
the Problem of Incurables’, in Rosen and Sluiter, Andreia, 113.
12 A. Hobbs, Plato and the Hero: Courage, Manliness and the Impersonal Good (Cam-
bridge 2000) 234.
13 375A–B, cf. 440A–41C; Hobbs, Plato and the Hero, 6–37.
4 walter t. wilson
enemies of the state but also to their fellow citizens. Therefore, the seem-
ingly opposed qualities of aggressiveness and gentleness must both be
cultivated among the young Guardians through an intensive period of
physical and intellectual preparation (375B–412B), or êskhsiw (404A, C). The
trainees’ literary and musical curriculum in particular must be chosen with
care, since this serves as the means by which they obtain a true and ‘holy’
conception of the gods and heroes (376E–98B), thereby learning to admire
only what is brave, free, pious, and self-controlled (395C). Conversely, they
are prohibited from emulating the roles of women or slaves (395D–E), or
from participating in sloth or drunkenness, since such behavior will render
them ‘soft’ (malak¤a).14 By the same token, since the natures of men and
women are intrinsically similar, the latter can be admitted with the former,
provided they meet the same qualifications (451C–57C). All the Guardians
are to live a common life together, unacquainted with private wealth, pro-
perty, or even families — in short, with anything that might distract them
emotionally from their service to the state.15 The nature of their education,
like their whole way of life, is designed to foster moderation (svfrosÊnh),16
which includes resistance to the desire for luxury that is so characteristic of
the Producers’ class.17 Ultimately, Plato assures us, this process will yield
Guardians who are not only able warriors but also lovers of wisdom
(375E), their high-spiritedness ordered (410D–E) so as to be obedient to
reason (lÒgow, 401D).18 At this point their courage is properly ‘civic’ in
nature, by which he means that they will hold fast to beliefs inculcated in
them by the state about ‘overall values and ends,’ which they will defend
even in the face of manifold dangers, hardships, and temptations.19
Beginning at 412B, Plato introduces the process by which some of the
Guardians will be selected for advanced education as potential rulers,
distinguished from the military class from which they originate, the latter
henceforth referred to as the Auxiliaries. These individuals are not only
intellectually gifted, they also exhibit the greatest zeal for what is in the
state’s best interest (412C–E). A lengthy philosophical curriculum makes
them attentive to the eternal truths of the intelligible realm (503E–18B),
culminating in an apprehension of the Form of the Good, to which they
endeavor to assimilate (éfomoioËsyai) themselves.20 Having thus achieved
an understanding of the virtues ‘as they are in the nature of things,’ the
the virtues as a structural and thematic device is consistent with Philo’s aim
to demonstrate the superiority and broad significance of Judaism within its
Greco-Roman context.33 In this enterprise, he is concerned to showcase the
Jewish community not as an ethnic group but as a nation guided by ‘the
most excellent philosophy’ 34 and established according to laws and
customs that constitute ‘the best polite¤a,’35 which, as such, accords with
the divine, cosmic polite¤a.36 Embodying the highest moral and political
aspirations of human culture, Judaism represents the preeminent school for
education in ‘the virtuous life’ (Spec. 2.61–63).37
In order to grasp their full import, it is essential to bear in mind that
Philo’s claims about the Jewish polite¤a were not mere theoretical
ruminations, but emanated from an intense personal involvement in the
struggle of Alexandrian Jews for civil rights. In Spec. 3.1–6, he complains
about being drawn into a sea of worries concerning polite¤a, which many
scholars take as a reference to the civil unrest of 38–41 c.e..38 In this case,
the writing of the Exposition (or at least its latter portions) belongs to a
period late in Philo’s life. This would have been shortly after he lead the
embassy to Gaius, what he later described as ‘a campaign on behalf of our
polite¤a’ (Legat. 349, cf. 193–94).
(Virt. 187–227), for which see M. Alexandre, ‘Le lexique des vertus: vertus philosophiques
et religieuses chez Philon’, in C. Lévy (ed.), Philon d’Alexandrie et le langage de la
philosophie, Monothéismes et Philosophie (Turnhout 1998) 17–46. On the contents of the
treatise as a whole, see Morris ‘The Jewish Philosopher Philo’ 850–53; E. Hilgert, ‘A
Review of Previous Research on Philo’s De Virtutibus’, SBLSP 30 (1991) 103–15; D. T.
Runia, ‘Underneath Cohn and Colson: The Text of Philo’s De virtutibus’, SBLSP 30 (1991)
116–34.
33 For other formulations of the canon, see, e.g., Opif. 73, Abr. 24, 219, Mos. 2.185, 216,
Spec. 2.62, Praem. 52, 160.
34 Cf. Opif. 8, Virt. 65; V. Nikiprowetzky, Le commentaire de l’écriture chez Philon
d’Alexandrie, ALGHJ 11 (Leiden 1977) 97–116.
35 Spec. 3.167, Virt. 175, cf. Decal. 14, Spec. 2.73, 3.24, 181, 4.10, 226, Virt. 108, 219, Praem. 4;
H. A. Wolfson, Philo, 2 vols. (Cambridge 1947) 2.374–95.
36 See Decal. 97–98, with Borgen, Philo of Alexandria, 73; cf. Opif. 143, Ios. 28–29, Spec.
1.51, 63, 314, 4.55, 159, Virt. 127.
37 Cohen, Philo Judaeus, 88–89: ‘the ‘virtuous life’ as defined in Greek thought is to be
achieved by ordering one’s life according to the precepts of the Mosaic revelation.’
38 Morris ‘The Jewish Philosopher Philo’ 843–44; Runia, On the Creation, 4; cf.
A. Terian, ‘The Priority of the Quaestiones among Philo’s Exegetical Commentaries’, in
D.´M. Hay (ed.), Both Literal and Allegorical: Studies in Philo of Alexandria’s Questions
and Answers on Genesis and Exodus, BJS 232 (Atlanta 1991) 29–46. In addition, Borgen
(Philo of Alexandria, 176–93) notes parallels that the Exposition (esp. its last four
treatises) shows with In Flaccum and Legatio ad Gaium, both written late in Philo’s life.
The suggestions of N. G. Cohen also accord with such a dating: ‘Agrippa I and D e
Specialibus Legibus IV 151–159’, SPhA 2 (1990) 72–85.
courage and warfare in philo’s de fortitudine 9
The crisis necessitating such diplomatic action had historical roots ex-
tending back almost to the foundation of Alexandria itself.39 Since the early
days of the Ptolemaic era, Jews there had enjoyed the right to organize as a
‘quasi-independent and self-governing communal organization,’ referred
to as a pol¤teuma by most modern and some ancient authors.40 The rights
intrinsic to such an institution, which must have been essential to the
preservation of the community’s native customs, continued to be respected
under Roman rule, a fact displayed perhaps most palpably in a stÆlh
erected in the city by Augustus.41 Significantly, the monument linked
official confirmation of the Jews’ civil rights with an acknowledgement of
the military service they had rendered representatives of Rome, in this case
troops serving under Julius Caesar in 48/47 B .C .E .42 In fact, the event
commemorated by the emperor would have been just one in a series of
armed interventions by Jewish forces in Egyptian politics, usually in ways
that aligned Jewish interests with those of Rome.43 The Alexandrian popu-
lace, denied its own governing body and despising Roman control general-
ly, resented such interventions and the special privileges accorded the
Jews.44 The situation was exacerbated further by the efforts of some elite,
Hellenized Jews to obtain citizenship in the Alexandrian pÒliw, a status
closely associated with the acquisition of Greek culture, as signified
especially through a gumnãsion education.45
39 For what follows, see esp. V. A. Tcherikover (with A. Fuks), Corpus Papyrorum
Judaicarum, 3 vols. (Cambridge 1957–64) 1.1–78 (henceforth CPJ).
40 D. Dawson, Allegorical Readers and Cultural Revision in Ancient Alexandria (Berkeley
1992) 114.
41 Josephus, c. Ap. 2.61, cf. 2.37, AJ 14.188; Philo, Flacc. 50.
42 Cf. A. Kasher, The Jews in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, TSAJ 7 (Tübingen 1985) 13–
18.
43 CPJ 1.19–25, 55–56; E. M. Smallwood, Philonis Alexandrini: Legatio ad Gaium, (Leiden
19702) 11; J. M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora (Edinburgh 1996) 35–41.
44 Reflective of the mood were various anti-Jewish histories of Egypt depicting them as
impious invaders from the East who viciously destroyed entire cities and desecrated
sacred sites. On the narratives of Manetho, e.g., see Josephus, c. Ap. 1.73–92, 227–87;
GLAJJ 1.62–86. Further, Kasher, Jews, 327–45; H. Conzelmann, Gentiles, Jews, Christians:
Polemics and Apologetics in the Greco-Roman Era (Minneapolis 1992) 79–91.
45 CPJ 1.38–43; Smallwood, Legatio, 12–14; Barclay, Jews, 42, 49, 66–70. The imposition of
the laograf¤a or poll tax beginning in 24/23 B .C.E ., from which Roman citizens and
citizens of Greek cities were exempt, would have created powerful social and economic
incentives for them to do so. Indeed, for elite Hellenized Jews living in Alexandria but
lacking Alexandrian citizenship payment of the tax would have been ‘a mark of extreme
political and cultural degradation.’ CPJ 1.61 (cf. 1.60–64; also Kasher, Jews, s.v.
laographia). Beginning in 4/5 c.e., the Roman government recognized a new class, ofl épÚ
gumnas¤ou, Greek-educated inhabitants living outside one of the pÒleiw who paid the poll
tax at a reduced rate: CPJ 1.59.
10 walter t. wilson
51 A. R. Dyck, A Commentary on Cicero, De Officiis (Ann Arbor 1996) 37, cf. 185. In Off.
2.7–8, Cicero indicates his allegiance to the Skeptical Academy.
52 Dyck, De Officiis, 29, 36.
53 Dyck, De Officiis, 30–36. This involves for Cicero showing how honestum ‘always
attaches to what is genuinely utile,’ the former being ‘not the vaguely ‘honourable’ of
traditional ideology, but a Stoicized concept of ethical excellence, in which justice is the
principal constituent.’ See A. A. Long, ‘Cicero’s politics in De officiis’, in A. Laks, M.
Schofield (edd.), Justice and Generosity: Studies in Hellenistic Social and Political
Philosophy (Cambridge 1995) 218, cf. 213–40.
54 North ‘Cardinal Virtues’ 174–77.
55 Cf. Dyck, De Officiis, 183.
12 walter t. wilson
While the exposition of fortitudo here contains various concepts and argu-
ments, on the whole it appears to be organized around two major theses.
First, like Panaetius and other Stoics, Cicero adheres to a principle that
came to be known as the éntakolouy¤a t«n éret«n, according to which ‘the
virtues imply one another, not only in the sense that he who has one has all
but also in the sense that he who performs any act in accordance with one
does so in accordance with all.’56 The ramifications that this has for the
analysis of courage are explored at various junctures in the exposition,
where we learn how the other virtues of the canon are constitutive of it. He
begins, for example, by interacting with Platonic statements about the
relationship between courage and justice, concurring that acts of daring
cannot be deemed properly courageous unless they are motivated by a
desire to champion lawful causes that serve the common good (cf. Plato,
Leg. 197B, Resp. 342E), rather than by selfishness or favoritism (62–65, cf.
85). Elsewhere, courage is shown to accord with wisdom. Certainly, the
frequent use of magnitudo animi to help capture the meaning of the former
results in ‘emphasizing the rational component at the expense of mere
animal courage.’57 Cicero concedes that physical training in preparation for
military service is advantageous, but only so that the body will obey the
judgments of reason more efficiently, since ultimately it is prudent counsel
that determines victory (cf. 76, 79–80). Hence the successful leader busies
himself with courage that is ‘true and wise’ (65). Intellectually self-reliant,
56 Plutarch, Stoic. rep. 1046E; cf. Cicero, Off. 1.15; Dyck, De Officiis, 98, 191; SVF 3.295–
304; Dillon, Middle Platonists, 76; H. Cullyer, ‘Paradoxical Andreia: Socratic Echoes in
Stoic ‘Manly Courage’’, in Rosen and Sluiter, Andreia, 213–33.
57 Dyck, De Officiis, 185.
courage and warfare in philo’s de fortitudine 13
he can discern the most sensible way to manage risks and dangers (81).
This attitude is summed up at 67 with the observation that it is ‘the rational
cause that makes men great.’ Attention is paid, finally, to demonstrating
the complementarity of courage with moderation. For Cicero, a crucial
measure of the former is an indifference to external goods and circum-
stances, through which one refuses to become ‘subject to any man or any
passion or any accident of fortune’ (66). True men, he says, are not satisfied
with overcoming obstacles like fear and pain. They must overcome also
any emotions that might disrupt the tranquillitas animi, especially the desire
for wealth, pleasure, and glory (67–69). This means additionally that they
will not indulge their anger when administering punishment or dealing
with conquered adversaries, being guided instead by placabilitas and
clementia (82, 88–89).58
Second, Cicero is at pains in this segment to construct a hierarchy of the
forms of courage, corresponding to the principle venues in which it can be
practiced. Asserted here is the superiority of the vita activa to the vita
contemplativa.59 While under certain circumstances the pursuit of the latter is
understandable, those who enter public life do more to profit the commun-
ity and earn greater acclaim, since they must assume greater risks (69–71).
Within this sphere, an additional preference is expressed for civilian over
military service. Without neglecting the topic of courage in wartime (79–
84), Cicero voices disagreement with the opinion held, he says, by most
people that the general’s accomplishments outweigh those of the states-
man (74, cf. 65, 67). He suggests, to the contrary, that the latter’s contribu-
tion to the public good is not only more enduring but it is, in fact, what
makes the exploits of the former possible (75–76). It stands to reason, then,
that civic courage demands ‘greater energy and devotion’ than its martial
counterpart, which too often deteriorates into vain ambition for personal
glory (74, 78). The argument here and elsewhere is advanced by means of
historical exempla relating the achievements of famous Greeks and Romans,
including Solon, Marcus Scaurus, and, of course, Cicero himself (75–78).
Such men embody the vision of courageous leadership that De officiis
promotes insofar as they combine the totality of traditional personal
virtues with ‘a regard for the utilitas communis.’60
58 Dyck (De Officiis, 226) notes that elsewhere the latter is treated under the head of
temperantia. Cf. Plato, Resp. 469B–71C.
59 With this emphasis Cicero may be departing from his source: Dyck, De Officiis, 29.
60 Dyck, De Officiis, 191.
14 walter t. wilson
Structurally, the exposition falls into two major sections, as spelled out in
Fort. 22: courage can be manifested either in peacetime (the focus of 5–21)
or in wartime (the focus of 22–46).62 The prologue (1–4) sets forth another
basic distinction, that between ‘true’ courage and its counterfeit. The latter,
evidenced by those who slaughter their enemies out of anger, is what most
people count as excellent, though in fact it amounts to nothing more than
foolish recklessness (yrasÊthw).63 Contrasting with this is Philo’s subject,
éndre¤a as a form of knowledge (§pistÆmh) 64 located in the soul and
esteemed among those who train in wisdom (éskhta‹ sof¤aw).65 Combin-
ing intelligence (frÒnhma) with valor (eÈtolm¤a), those who cultivate this
virtue are able to reason about what is beneficial (tÚ sumf°ron)66 for the
good of the state, offering effective counsel even when they are old or
infirm. The next section of the treatise goes on to describe this form of
courage at the expense of the other, as the two are exhibited in civilian life.
The thesis for this section (5–14) is given in 5a: a person of limited under-
standing will go soft (malak¤zomai) when confronted with situations that
are difficult to endure (dusupomÒnhta),67 especially poverty, disrepute, dis-
ablement, and sickness.68 Conversely, whoever is governed by frÒnhsiw is
promising divine support for those who pursue ‘justice, holiness, and the
other virtues’ in peacetime and wartime (cf. Lev 26:5; Deut 28:1–2, 7).72
Philo begins here by listing the criteria for exclusion from military
service (cf. Deut 20:5–8).73 Cowards, of course, are banned because they are
afflicted by softness (malak¤a), a condition that would contaminate the
other soldiers and render them unmanly (23–26). In addition, anyone who
might be distracted by certain private affairs, such as a betrothal, is not
allowed to serve (27–31). In 32–33, he goes on to list the qualifications for
inclusion: the body must be healthy and agile, the soul possessed of
eÈtolm¤a and frÒnhsiw, preferring death with good fame (eÎkleia) to a
dishonorable life. An army composed of soldiers thus equipped, says Philo,
will defeat any adversary, achieving even a ‘bloodless’ victory in the
process.74
This claim is then substantiated in 34–46 with an exemplary historical tale
drawn from Numbers 25 and 31.75 Stymied in their attempts to conquer the
Israelites by force, the Midianite men hatch a plot to disrupt the unity of
their enemy by enlisting the aid of the Midianite women: enticed by the
latter’s beauty, the Israelite men will willingly break the law and commit
idolatry, causing their own downfall. Divine punishment of the 24,000
youths who subsequently fall prey to this tactic spurs a military reprisal on
the part of the Israelites. Their souls inspired by pious dÒgmata, a thousand
of the best warriors from each tribe obliterate the Midianite army without
incurring a single casuality, evidence, Philo says, of their divine support.
As with the fuller version provided in De vita Mosis 1.294–311, in recount-
ing this biblical story Philo betrays a special interest in its element of seduc-
tion.76 Near the beginning of both accounts, he produces a major speech
detailing the Midianite plot and identifying its basic premise, the desire that
youths have for sex (Fort. 35–38, cf. Mos. 1.296–99). In Fort. 39–40, Philo
embellishes the theme with an additional segment, unparalleled in De vita
Mosis, describing the women’s consent, character, and appearance. The
version in De fortitudine is distinguished further by its disinclination to
name any of the biblical characters involved in the story. In fact, Balaam,
Balak, and Phinehas do not figure in the account at all, and even Moses
warrants only brief mention in 42 as ı toË ¶ynouw ≤gem≈n. As a result,
attention is drawn to the fighting forces themselves. The principal conflict is
not between the leaders of the respective nations but between the
Midianite women with their feminine wiles and the pious courage of the
Israelite soldiers.
77 Cf. Plato, Resp. 493E–94A: the number of those who love wisdom is small, and
generally they will be despised by the public; also Lach. 197B–C. The few vs. the many
motif figures in Philo’s description of the battle as well, e.g., Fort. 46.
78 Hobbs, Plato and the Hero, 84.
18 walter t. wilson
79 Cf. Philo, Mos. 2.7; D. Winston, ‘Philo’s Ethical Theory’, ANRW II.21.1 (1984) 395.
80 See above, nn. 29–33.
81 Philo, Mut. 225, Abr. 232, Mos. 2.9, Decal. 164, Spec. 2.63. The language of justice does
make an appearance near the end of the treatise; see Fort. 42, 47, 50.
82 See Abr. 60, 208, Decal. 52, 119, Spec. 4.97, 135, 147, Virt. 51, 95. In Spec. 2.62–63, the
curriculum of synagogue education is summarized with reference to the Platonic canon
plus the ‘ two main heads’: eÈs°beia/ısiÒthw and filanyrvp¤a/dikaiosÊnh.
courage and warfare in philo’s de fortitudine 19
thereby minimizing one’s bodily needs and holding every desire in check
(8, 13, 15–17; cf. Cicero, Off. 1.67–69). This leads to svfrosÊnh, which pre-
vents the reasoning faculty from being swept away by the tide of the
passions (ÍpÚ t∞w t«n pay«n forçw kataklÊzesyai, 14). Similarly, the mili-
tary rolls include no one into whom any pãyow has found entry (31). Those
who do suffer from such passion are punished as a lesson to others in
danger of being similarly swept away, as though by a torrent (Àsper ÍpÚ
xeimãrrou kataklusy∞nai, 41).
Among the components of courage Philo also implicates the virtue of
humanity.83 As we learn from the introduction to De humanitate (the sub-
treatise that immediately follows De fortitudine), Moses recognized that
those who aspire to filanyrvp¤a must practice koinvn¤a, that is, fellowship
in public affairs (Virt. 51). In doing so, they build up human communities
on various levels (119) and imitate God, whose generosities are of common
benefit (koinvfele›w) to humanity (169). Elsewhere, filanyrvp¤a and
koinvn¤a can even be used as parallel expressions.84 In the same work, Philo
suggests that certain acts of mercy (o‰ktow) can also be concomitant with
filanyrvp¤a, for example, showing pity on young women taken captive in
war.85
In De fortitudine, the value of courage as a prerequisite for ‘public’
service is as applicable to military contexts as it is to civilian ones. As a rule,
the law assigns men a b¤ow politikÒw (19). Philo stresses that those who are
courageous in this sphere render assistance of the highest public value
(koinvfel°statai), benefiting the common life (tå koinã) of the state (3).
They do so even if they are physically unfit for military service, where it is
expected that all enlistees will exhibit an ethos that is public spirited
(koinvnikÒw, 27). The army benefits from the application of filanyrvp¤a as
a criterion in its formation, which requires the exemption of men with
certain external commitments (28). In turn, the Israelite soldiers demon-
strate a humane disposition in carrying out their duties: while they kill the
women involved in the plot against them, they spare the Midianite
maidens, having pity (ofiktisãmenoi) for their youthful innocence (43).86
83 For Philo’s views on filanyrvp¤a, see Winston ‘Philo’s Ethical Theory’ 391–400; P.
Borgen, ‘Philanthropia in Philo’s Writings’, in L. B. Elder et al. (edd.), Biblical and
Humane: A Festschrift for John F. Priest, Scholars Press Homage Series 20 (Atlanta 1996)
173–88; K. Berthelot, Philanthrôpia Judaica: Le débat autour de la ‘misanthropie’ des lois
juives dans l’Antiquité, JSJSup 76 (Leiden 2003) 233–321.
84 Virt. 80, cf. Mos. 2.9, Decal. 109–10, Spec. 1.295, 324, 2.104, 141, Virt. 63, 81, 84, 90, 96,
103.
85 Virt. 110, cf. Spec. 2.138, 4.18.
86 Cf. Num 31:17–18; Philo, Mos. 1.311. With this we may compare the o‰ktow God takes
in Fort. 41 on the 24,000 idolaters.
20 walter t. wilson
Finally, the case is made that courage can be properly understood only
insofar as it is informed by the virtue of eÈs°beia. This is, for Philo, not
simply a pious attitude, but an orientation that entails ısiÒthw prÚw yeÒn,87
that is, knowing and following God,88 the goal of which is assimilation
(§jomo¤vsiw) to God and the divine order.89 In De fortitudine, as throughout
the Exposition, Philo simply assumes that the distinguishing national
feature of the Israelites is their holiness (ısiÒthw), in which they offer rever-
ence and honor to God (34, cf. 42, 47, 50). In peacetime, courage contributes
to this state chiefly through a steadfast commitment to self-sufficiency,
which facilitates the process of assimilation (§jomo¤vsiw) to God, who has no
needs or wants (8), so that one stands, as it were, ‘midway between immor-
tal and mortal nature’ (9). Association with the divine also characterizes
wartime courage. As we would expect, the minds and bodies of those who
fight for eÈs°beia in battle are enlivened by divine power (45). But what
ultimately carries the day is the manifestation of God’s very self among
their ranks as a warrior — ‘the foremost combatant, an invincible ally’ —
furnishing the most dramatic evidence of the nation’s unique piety and
divine favor (45, cf. 42, 46–47, 49–50).
Philo’s exposition in De fortitudine, then, shows not only how Mosaic
courage as such is constituted by the other virtues, but also how this
defining quality applies equally to both of its forms. The law trains its
followers to observe the full range of virtues in military as well as civilian
contexts.90
If Philo does not join Cicero in attempting to demonstrate the superior-
ity of one type of courage over another, he does develop a hierarchy of a
different kind, one that avers the essentially masculine character of
éndre¤a.91 As noted above, Fort. 18–21, with its exegesis of Deut 22:5, seems
at first glance only loosely tethered to the preceding discussion about what
the courageous endure and how they do so.92 However, it plays a critical
87 Abr. 208. Philo uses eÈs°beia and ısiÒthw so frequently in parallel constructions that
they seem to be practically interchangeable, e.g., Opif. 155, 172, Mos. 1.198, 307, 2.142,
216, 270, Decal. 110, 119, Spec. 1.54, 186, 2.63, 224, 3.127, 4.135, cf. Virt. 51.
88 See Abr. 60–61, Decal. 100–1; Runia, On the Creation, 367.
89 On Philo’s ımo¤vsiw doctrine, see Opif. 144, 151, Fug. 63, Abr. 61, 87, Decal. 73, 101, Spec.
4.188, Virt. 168; W. E. Helleman, ‘Philo of Alexandria on Deification and Assimilation to
God’, SPhA 2 (1990) 51–71. Cf. above, n. 20.
90 Similarities in the descriptions of those evidencing peacetime and wartime courage
extend to a variety of other lexical details as well, e.g., both exhibit yarsaleÒthw and
eÈtolm¤a (3, 32), girding themselves (§papodÊv) for the fight (5, 31), scorning (katafron°v)
all dangers (15, 17, 43) as they pit themselves (éntitãssv) against the foe (5, 10, 43).
91 This is of relatively little importance in De officiis, though cf. 1.61.
92 In his characterization of the treatise as ‘a poor piece of work,’ Colson (Philo, xiii)
complains that ‘[t]he first seventeen sections … are not illustrated from the laws at all.
courage and warfare in philo’s de fortitudine 21
[Philo] then notes the law which forbids a man to assume a woman’s dress, which … is
hardly a law promoting éndre¤a in the sense of courage.’
93 Cf. Josephus, AJ 4.301.
94 Cf. Plato, Meno 73A; Aristotle, Pol. 1.5.8.
95 Cf. C. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in ancient Rome (Cambridge 1993) 63–97; C.
Williams, Roman Homosexuality: Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity (New
York 1999) s.v. mollitia.
96 Another point on which civilian and military forms of courage approximate one
other.
22 walter t. wilson
doctrines that remove from the soul its desire for extravagance (polut°-
leia, 8). Rather than ‘following nature,’ as the law prescribes (18–19), they
hope to improve upon their natural beauty (tÚ §k fÊsevw kãllow, 39). The
fact that they trade in the very sorts of passions that the temperate ought
to resist (13–14) exposes their claims to svfrosÊnh as utter hypocrisy (39).
In all this they contradict the Mosaic ideal of womanhood.
It is not, however, only in their transgressions, in their profane
appearance, harlotry, and idolatry (40), that the Midianite women spurn the
law. It is also in the fact that they constitute an actual fighting ‘force’
capable of undermining the Israelites, a menace that must be defeated in
order to re-establish Mosaic order. This becomes evident when we examine
the accumulation of descriptive details Philo offers in the exposition
showing how the two sides mirror one another in their motivation and
comportment.
Like the Israelite soldiers, for example, the women utilize physical ‘pos-
tures and movements’ to overwhelm their foes (40: sx°sesi ka‹ kinÆsesin,
cf. 32: sx°seiw te ka‹ kinÆseiw). Both sides are encouraged not to be fearful
(de¤dv) — the Israelites of a formidable enemy (48), the women of the
sullied reputation they will earn for their misdeeds (37). While the latter
willingly accept such disgrace (afisxÊnh, 37, 40) for the sake of victory, the
Israelite soldiers refuse to invest disgraceful action (afisxrÒw) of any kind
‘with fair-sounding titles’ (24). Like the courageous man of 10, the women
intend to convert their édoj¤a into eÎkleia through ‘excellent’ conduct (37–
38, cf. 32). Their ériste¤a, however, is counterfeit, in contrast to that of the
12,000 Israelites chosen for battle in 42.
Both groups hope that their actions will reap benefits (»f°leiai) for their
respective countries (25, 37, cf. 3). The women’s aim is to secure victory
without bloodshed (énaimvt¤), having received assurances that ‘you have
merely to be seen (aÈtÚ mÒnon Ùfye›sai) and … the day will be yours’ (38).
But, in the end, both the Midianite commanders and their female provoca-
teurs fall victim to the same fate they had intended for their enemy. On the
battlefield, the Israelite army mows down many myriads ‘by a mere
shout’ (aÈtoboe¤, 43), achieving precisely the sort of bloodless (énaimvt¤)
victory its enlistment procedures were designed to produce (33). The rea-
son for this, of course, is that the soldiers champion the cause of eÈs°beia
(42, 45) against the forces of és°beia (34).97 But more than this, their enemy
constitutes a shocking inversion of the gender polarity upon which the
law’s regimen of éndre¤a is predicated. The Midianite men explain that by
prostituting their bodies it is the women who will ‘outwit and outgeneral’
97 With the unholy resolutions (gn«mai) in which the women participate (43), cf. the
gn≈mh of the men zealous for military service in 27; cf. Schmid, On Manly Courage, 108.
courage and warfare in philo’s de fortitudine 23
the enemy (37). However, even if their ruse meets with success, it will in
fact constitute for the men a Pyrrhic victory. Since it will be ‘brought to a
successful conclusion by women and not men,’ the latter are forced to
acknowledge that ‘it is our sex … which will suffer defeat’ (38). Conversely,
Israelite courage is defined in overcoming this anomaly through the
destruction of masculine women, who usurp male prerogatives, and their
effeminate men, who acquiesce to female activity in, of all places, inter-
national warfare.
To sum up: even as both writers analyze courage from a philosophical
perspective and in conjunction with a set of virtues deemed essential for
personal, civic, and military life, the foregoing analysis has revealed some
differences in their assumptions and priorities as well, the chief of which can
be stated as follows. First, the two explicate the principal features of cour-
age in relation to different versions of the canon of cardinal virtues: Cicero
works with the conventional four, Philo with a version that includes
filanyrvp¤a and eÈs°beia. Second, Philo shows a greater interest than does
Cicero in explaining the nature of military courage and in highlighting
wartime achievements as legitimate demonstrations of virtue. Third, even
as he shares Cicero’s elitist perspective, in describing such achievements
Philo looks less to military leaders for moral exempla and more to the army
as such.98 Fourth, Philo makes a more concerted effort than does Cicero to
portray courage as a uniquely masculine concept, opposed to femininity
and aberrations of gender norms.
98 Note also how the principles of selection in Fort. 32 apply equally to soldiers and
officers.
24 walter t. wilson
99 See, e.g., F. Hartog, The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the
Writing of History (Berkeley 1988) 330–39; E. Hall, ‘Asia unmanned: Images of victory in
classical Athens’, in J. Rich, G. Shipley (edd.), War and Society in the Greek World
(London 1993) 108–33.
100 For what follows, see K. Scott, ‘The Political Propaganda of 44–30 B.C.’, Memoirs of
the American Academy in Rome 11 (1933) 7–49; R. Syme, The Roman Revolution (Oxford
1939) 259–75, 440–58, and passim; P. Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus
(Ann Arbor 1988) 33–77; M. Wyke, ‘Augustan Cleopatras: Female Power and Poetic
Authority’, in A. Powell (ed.), Roman Poetry and Propaganda in the Age of Augustus
(Bristol 1992) 98–140; cf. P. Wallmann, Triumviti Rei Publicae Constituendae: Untersu-
chungen zur Politischen Propaganda im Zweiten Triumvirat (43–30 v. Chr.), Europäische
Hochschulschriften 3.383 (Frankfurt am Main 1989) 249–342.
101 S. K. Stowers, A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles (New Haven 1994)
54.
102 See, e.g., Edwards, Politics of Immorality, 34–62; S. R. Joshel, ‘Female Desire and the
Discourse of Empire: Tacitus’ Messalina’, in J. P. Hallett, M. B. Skinner (edd.), Roman
Sexualities (Princeton 1997) 221–54.
courage and warfare in philo’s de fortitudine 25
the political and/or military domains — and the sexual license thought to
inevitably accompany such incursions — as portents of moral decline and
social upheaval.103 In concert with this, the ideology of Actium projected
male ambivalence toward female otherness onto the culture of the
vanquished enemy, mapping gender dominance onto the structure of
Eastern conquest. This was the logic of a regime ‘in which Roman Order is
re-established externally through the defeat of Cleopatra and internally
through the re-domestication of women.’104
A related set of concerns was animated by the increasing contacts with
foreign cultures occasioned by military expansion, cultures whose habits
seemed to Roman sensibilities as corrupting as they were alluring. Simply
put, male elites operated according to a political ethic in which the capacity
to control one’s desires legitimated the authority one exercised over those
lacking such control. Hence it was incumbent upon members of the
governing class to resist and denounce any interest in foreign luxuries and
vices, especially those that had infiltrated Roman society from the East.
Failure to do so on any number of fronts rendered one ‘soft’ and unfit to
rule.105 For example, one of the most obvious ways in which a man might
appear to lose a grip on his masculine identity was ‘by indulging in an
excessive focus on his appearance or making himself look like a woman,’106
which could include ‘wearing loose, colorful, feminine clothing (including
the mitra or Eastern-style turban).’107 On this issue, the opinion of Donatus
is representative: to ‘share the same dress’ as a woman is tantamount to
sharing ‘the same bodily weakness, the same mental decadence.’108 Such
self-indulgence signaled one’s incapacity in the face of temptation and an
excessive, womanly interest in sex.109 As evidence that he had been
103 E.g., Lysias, Or. 2.4–6; Sallust, Bell. Cat. 25; Lucan, Bell. civ. 10.53–171. Cf. Wyke
‘Augustan Cleopatras’ 108–28; R. A. Gurval, Actium and Augustus: The Politics and
Emotions of Civil War (Ann Arbor 1995) 167–208; J. McInerney, ‘Plutarch’s Manly Women’,
in Rosen and Sluiter, Andreia, 319–44.
104 A. M. Keith, Engendering Rome: Women in Latin Epic (Cambridge 2000) 81, cf. 65–
100.
105 E. S. Gruen, Studies in Greek Culture and Roman Policy, Cincinnati Classical Studies
7 (Leiden 1990) 158–92; Edwards, Politics of Immorality, 22–24, 92–97; Williams, Roman
Homosexuality, 132–42 and s.v. Greece and Greek cultural traditions.
106 Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 141.
107 Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 129. See, e.g., Virgil, Aen. 9.614–20; Dio Cassius
43.2–4; Seneca, Ep. 122.7; Aulus Gellius, Noct. att. 1.5.1–2, 6.12.1–6; Athenaeus, Deipn.
565C.
108 Donatus 2.268.25–30 (translation from Keith, Engendering Rome, 22). According to
Seneca, Contr. 9.2.17, it is especially disgraceful for a man of authority to perform his
official duties ‘in the clothing of a slave or a woman.’ Conversely, for a woman to don a
toga marked her as an adulteress or prostitute: Edwards, Politics of Immorality, 40.
109 Edwards, Politics of Immorality, 81–84.
26 walter t. wilson
Imperial Rome’, in L. Foxhall, J. Salmon (edd.), When Men Were Men: Masculinity,
power and identity in classical antiquity (London 1998) 205–23; B. Campbell, War and
Society in Imperial Rome (London 2002) 1–46.
130 Edwards, Politics of Immorality, 1–2.
131 Alston ‘Arms and the man’ 211; Campbell, War and Society, 30–31; W. V. Harris, War
and Imperialism in Republican Rome (Oxford 1979) 17–18.
132 S. E. Phang, The Marriage of Roman Soldiers: Law and Family in the Imperial Army,
Columbia Studies in the Classical Tradition 24 (Leiden 2001).
133 J. Walters, ‘Invading the Roman Body: Manliness and Impenetrability in Roman
Thought’, in Hallett and Skinner, Roman Sexualities, 29–43.
134 E.g., Cicero, Verr. 2.116, Phil. 3.31; Sallust, Bell. Cat. 51.9; Tacitus, Ann. 1.16, 31, 13.35,
Hist. 2.56, 73, 3.33, 4.14; Dio Cassius 75.2.5–6; Fronto, Ad Verum. Imp. 2.1.19. Cf. I.
Kajanto, ‘Tacitus’ Attitude to War and the Soldier’, Latomus 29 (1970) 699–718.
135 Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 104 (cf. 105–7): ‘Roman writers often give voice to
fears that victorious armies … will rape both males and females among the vanquished.’
136 Text and translation from Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 136. Cf. Livy 39.6.6–7;
30 walter t. wilson
In order to ensure the loyalty of the army he had brought with him in Asia,
Lucius Sulla treated them luxuriously and too freely, violating the standards of
our ancestors. The lovely, pleasant regions had easily softened (molliverant) the
soldiers’ fierce minds … There for the first time the army of the Roman people
became accustomed to love and drink; … to steal … to loot temples; to dese-
crate everything, both sacred and profane.
By and large, in spite of the essential role they played in procuring and
preserving elite power, theirs was — by aristocratic standards — a severely
compromised manhood.137 Indeed, it appeared that too often the Roman
soldiery wallowed in the vices of the very societies over which they were
suppose to exercise dominion. Unsettled by such a burgeoning moral ano-
maly, elites denounced soldiers as threats to the moral fabric of imperium.
Shown by their behavior to be sub-viri, even sub-human,138 they were
deemed incapable of commanding themselves, much less others. Through
a series of military reforms, Augustus presented himself in this context as
‘both creating a ‘new’ army and restoring ‘old’ discipline.’139 The prohibi-
tion of marriage, for example, was simply part of a larger effort to maintain
warfare as the exclusive domain of males, insulating troops ‘from any taint
of effeminization, in order to maintain their ability to conquer and to
ensure dominion over the Greeks and barbarians.’140
Conclusion
Emory University
Atlanta
There is a brief, and to some a bit puzzling, account at the end of Philo’s
Legatio ad Gaium (§353) that could stand some elaboration. After much ver-
biage describing the background to the embassy and to the delegation’s
actual meeting with the emperor in the first 90% of our historical treatise,
Philo provides a record, finally, of his encounter with Caligula, and he
implies that Gaius’ opening words were meant as a provocation. The epi-
sode raises several issues: (1) Just what was the utterance that so irritated
the Jewish party? (2) How is the Greek here to be understood? (3) If the
emperor really did use the divine name, this opens up further questions: (i)
Would he have understood the concept of a (normally) nameless god? (ii)
How could he have been aware that using the divine name would be
displeasing to the Jews from Alexandria? (iii) How could he have learned
the name itself? (iv) In what form was it most likely to have been known?
It is best to begin by quoting our passage:2
sarkavzwn ga;r a{ma kai; seshrwv", uJmei'", ei\pen, ejste; oiJ qeomisei'", oiJ qeo;n mh;
nomivzonte" ei\naiv me, to;n h[dh para; pa'si toi'" a[lloi" ajnwmologhmevnon, ajlla;
to;n ajkatonovmaston uJmi'n… kai; ajnateivna" ta;" cei'ra" eij" to;n oujrano;n ejpe -
fhvmize provsrhsin, h}n oujde; ajkouvein qemitovn, oujc o{ti diermhneuvein aujtolexeiv.
In the last sentence the emperor raises his hands to heaven and says
something impermissible. Just what was the provsrhsi"? This has tradition-
ally been understood to refer to the divine name of the Hebrew God.
Representatively, Smallwood expounds the text, ‘Gaius uttered the sacred
name for the Jewish God, Jahweh (the tetragrammaton), as an intentional
act of blasphemy.’3 Others have drawn a similar conclusion.4 However, this
1 I thank Adam Kamesar, Hebrew Union College, for reading an earlier draft and
offering suggestions.
2 The text used here (with the punctuation slightly adapted) may be found in PCW
6.220. It is also available in E. Mary Smallwood, Philonis Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium,
first ed. (Leiden 1961) second ed. (1970), both on 142. Since she changed the translation of
this passage in her second edition, I sometimes cite by both editions infra.
3 318 in both eds.
4 This appears to be a very old interpretation going back at least to T. Mangey, Philonis
Judaei Opera . . . omnia, vol. 2 (London 1742) 597; J. F. Eckhard takes this position in his
German translation, Die Gesandtschaft an den Caius (Leipzig 1783) 143 n. 2; see also I.
34 frank shaw
Heinemann, Philos griechische und jüdische Bildung (Breslau 1932) 531 n. 2; W. L. Knox,
Some Hellenistic Elements in Primitive Christianity (London 1944) 49–50; F. W. Kohnke,
Gesandtschaft an Caligula, PCH 7 (Berlin 1964) 262 n. 1; V. Nikiprowetzky, De Decalogo,
PAPM 23 (Paris 1965) 146–7; A. Pelletier, Legatio ad Caium, PAPM 32 (Paris 1972) 308–9.
In one of the most extended modern commentaries on this passage Nikiprowetzky
declares: ‘Il est certain que Philon connaissait l’existence du Tétragramme et qu’il était
parfaitement capable de le reconnaître sur les lèvres de Caligula. Il n’ignorait pas que ce
nom divin était, aux yeux des Juifs, revêtu d’une sainteté particulière. On ne devait pas le
prononcer ailleurs qu’au temple. . . . [He then cites the above quotation and continues]
Ayant proféré ces mots, l’Empereur lève les mains au ciel et pronounce le Tétragramme.
La solution de continuité logique paraît manifest entre les paroles de Gaius et le geste sur
lequel elles débouchent,’ Le commentaire de l’écriture chez Philon d’Alexandrie, ALGHJ 11
(Leiden 1977) 59, 86. David Runia, in an article that is often germane to the topic
discussed here, likewise believes that our locus refers to the tetragram, ‘Naming and
Knowing: Themes in Philonic Theology with Special Reference to the De Mutatione
Nominum,’ in R. van der Broek et al. (edd.), Knowledge of God in the Graeco-Roman
World, EPRO 112 (Leiden 1988) 78 n. 32.
5 S. M. McDonough, YHWH at Patmos: Rev. 1:4 in its Hellenistic and Jewish Setting,
WUNT 107 (Tübingen 1999).
6 McDonough, YHWH at Patmos, 83 n. 127.
7 Private correspondence (09-25-00). I thank S. McDonough for his continued dialogue on
this matter with me; several of the points in the following paragraphs are the result of
our electronic discussions.
8 For more on this word, see n. 27 infra.
9 The passage reads: mhvpote mevntoi ge oujde; tovpon nu'n ajllhgorw'n ejpi; tou' aijtivou pareivlh-
fen, ajll j e[sti to; dhlouvmenon toiou'ton: h\lqen eij" to;n tovpon, kai; ajnablevya" toi'" ojfqalmoi'"
ei\den aujto;n to;n tovpon, eij" o}n e\lqe, makra;n o[nta tou' ajkatonomavstou kai; ajrrhvtou kai; kata;
pavsa" ijdeva" ajkatalhvptou qeou', text from PCW 2.219, with slight punctuation changes.
the emperor gaius’ employment of the divine name 35
15 This goes back to at least Eckhard who renders, ‘Send [= seid] ihr allein diejenigen,
welche keinen Gott leiden können, als den, dessen Namen ihr nicht aussprechet, die ihr
mich vor keinen Gott halten wollet, da ich von allen Uebrigen davor erkannt werde?’ Die
Gesandtschaft, 143–4. Other Germans who similarly understand out passage include Hans
Lewy, Von den Machterweisen Gottes (Berlin 1935) 79, and Kohnke, Gesandtschaft a n
Caligula, 261–2. Marcel Simon likewise takes the Greek in this manner, ‘Jupiter-Yahvé,’
Numen 23 (1976) 49.
16 The fact that German and French native speakers so easily and consistently see one
possibility, while all the English translators (and one Italian) do not, may indicate that
the native language of the latter group is interfering with seeing both possible
understandings of the passage. Then too one might wonder how much influence that first
English translation of our text by Yonge has continued to exercise. We should remember
that Yonge’s work is a ‘rather inaccurate English translation,’ Hans Lewy, Philo:
Selections, Philosophia Judaica 8 (Oxford 1946) 107 reprinted in Three Jewish Philosophers
(New York 1960 et freq.) same pagination. The classic work on ancient Greek variatio or
metabolhv continues to be Jan G. A. Ros, Die METABOLH (Variatio) als Stilprinzip des
Thukydides (Paderborn 1938, reprint Amsterdam 1968). Even in Ros’ most advanced
section on syntax (387–450), which might contain principles pertinent for help in
understanding the Greek in our passage, he does not attempt to handle the sort of thing
we see here, a phenomenon likely more common in the flowery literary koine of Philo’s
time than in the non-rhetorical sections of Thucydides (where Ros argues that the
historian’s use of sophisticated syntactic variation is the greatest).
17 Pelletier, PAPM 308. Might this also be what lies behind the revised translation of
Smallwood (n. 11 supra)?
the emperor gaius’ employment of the divine name 37
18 This is clear througout the Philonic corpus but is covered specifically, e.g., at Spec.
2.29 and Mig. 89–93.
19 David Winston has drawn attention to the similar language used at Sirach 51.13–30
LXX and 11QPsa (= 11Q5), Philo of Alexandria, Classics of Western Spirituality (Ramsey,
New Jersey 1981) 330.
20 Colson’s term, PLCL 7: 411. Colson’s note on this passage further explains the two-fold
meaning, 458.
21 The problems with this text are many and varied, too complex so to do justice to them
all here. Runia mentions several including the fact that at the first encounter with our
word kyrios in § 11 (as adj.), one does not know whether ‘proper’ name is to be understood
as a ‘legitimate’ name or a ‘personal’ one. Previous views on precisely what other
play(s) on words here may exist vary; they are reviewed by Runia who then presents his
own thinking, ‘Naming and Knowing, ’76–9. Not surprisingly the passage has textual
problems relating to our word. A further consideration is that as an adjective kyrios can
have more than the two connotations mentioned by Runia, and even if one wants to stick
with ‘proper, legitimate’ throughout our text, a reader of Philo’s day would likely not
have missed the additional shades of meaning such as ‘authorized, fixed, appointed,’
and ‘current,’ especially given the contextual statements that this ‘name’ is merely
aijwvnion and is linked to temporary human existence, is revealed to created beings, and is
not set beyond memory and noetic processes. Thus several meanings of kyrios as adjective
could easily be viewed as fitting better with the noun here, exactly what we do not find
Philo specifying.
22 Because, according to Philo, ultimately he does not have one.
23 Literally the ‘the improper use’ (katav c rhsi") of a divine name; see Runia, ‘Naming
and Knowing,’ 77–8.
38 frank shaw
David Runia has pointed out to me that the phrase e{neka th'" pro;" to;n
oJrato;n ‹qeo;n› aijdou'" at Aet. 20 could be taken with the material prior to it
or after it. This sentence states that is it necessary to put in order first the
arguments (lovgou" . . . protevrou" taktevon) that take their proper beginning
(oijkeivan ajrch;n labovnta" which come after the e{neka phrase) and that
contend that the world is uncreated and indestructible (tou;" de; ajgevnhton
kai; a[fqarton kataskeuavzonta" which come before the e{neka phrase). Is
the showing of respect for the visible God to be construed with arguments
contending that the world is not created and imperishable or with making
a proper start of such argumentation? In a private communication Runia
has suggested that although it is usually preferable to find a single meaning
in Philo, instances of deliberate double import should not be ruled out, and
that in this passage our author may have had both implications in mind.24
The position of the e{neka phrase ambiguously placed between the two
participles might well indicate this.
In her new Septuagint primer Jenny Dines sees a double connotation in
Philo’s description of how the Torah’s translators chose their ojnovmata kai;
rJhvmata, w{sper uJpobolevw" eJkavstoi" ajoravtew" ejnhcou'to" (Mos. 2.37). Focus-
ing in on the uJpoboleuv", ajoravtew", and ejnhvcw, she presents two options for
the first word, the ‘prompter’ of the Greek theater and the ‘interpreter’
usage by Philo at Mig. 78–80. Dines then notes that ejnhvcw connotes a loud,
persistent noise, and since ‘Greek theatres required more than a discreet
whisper from the prompter,’ the notion of uJpoboleuv" as interpreter may be
more prominent. However, she goes on, ‘Philo may be thinking of both
images simultaneously; the fact that the ‘voice’ is ‘unseen’ might suggest
both the prompter in the wings and the heavenly provenance of the
inspired words.’25 More examples of this possibility of multiple meanings
that are only accessible to those reading the original language could be
rallied,26 but the point has been made. Thus the mature solution to the
quandary of how to understand the sophisticated syntax in our Legatio
passage may be to recognize that Philo actually intended to convey both
meanings proposed by modern translators. So much for comprehending
the original Greek.
One might now wonder whether the ajkatonovmasto" would make sense
to Jews but be relatively cryptic to gentile readers.27 Without entering into
the question of Philo’s intended audience, especially for this historical work,
such thinking might indicate some ignorance of this concept among educa-
ted pagans. Pelletier argues that the term would have been sensible to
them in this context.28 He does not mention this, but certainly both Philo’s
assertion about God’s being nameless29 and the same concept as it existed
among gentile philosophers must ultimately go back to the statements in
Plato’s Parmenides concerning to; e[n: oujd j a[ra o[noma e[stin aujtw'/ . . . oujd j
ojnomavzetai.30 Plotinus at least twice expresses similar thoughts.31 Roelof van
der Broek summarizes: ‘The idea that God has no proper name is very
common in the philosophical and religious literature of the first centuries of
our era; it is expressed by pagan, Jewish and Christian writers alike.’32
Henry Chadwick likewise traces the notion that God is ineffable as present
To this day we do not know the name of the divinity involved here. Given
the reputation this story had, it is certainly likely that Gaius, even if his
philosophical training was not very comprehensive, understood the notion
of a god being ajkatonovmasto".
Yet another point that one might have difficulty with is how the empe-
ror could have both learned the name and that its articulation could be
offensive to the Jewish delegation. Beside the fact that Gaius may certainly
have had imperial advisors who were educated enough to have this infor-
mation, one need not look very far for other possibilities. King (Herod)
Agrippa I may immediately to come to mind. As is well-known among
scholars of ancient Judaism, he was a close friend to Caligula, one who
surely could have conveyed this information to the emperor .35 Then there
is the slave Helicon who, if we are to believe Philo, had been raised a Jew in
Alexandria but had left his native traditions and risen in the imperial
33 H. Chadwick, The Church in Ancient Society (Oxford 2001) 128. Here Chadwick is
specifically speaking of Justin Martyr and Clement of Alexandria’s ‘finding an antici-
pation of the Christian triad in contemporary Platonist exegesis.’
34 E. Löfstedt, Late Latin (Oslo–Cambridge 1959) 182. The ancient references are Pliny,
NH, 3.65, Plutarch, Quaest. Rom. 58.61, Servius, In Aen. 1.277, and Macrobius, Sat. 3.9.3. I
thank my colleague Mischa Hooker for giving me these references from the Löfstedt
book. The definitive work on this topic is A. Brelich, Die geheime Schutzgottheit von Rom
(Zurich 1949). For a review of Brelich, see S. Weinstock, JRS 40 (1950) 149–50.
35 Philo, Legat. 261–333. Given the crisis of Gaius’ statue and the similarity of 265 to 353,
Agrippa might well be pressed into service to argue for this view. See also Flacc. 40,
Josephus, AJ 18.166–8, 228–37.
the emperor gaius’ employment of the divine name 41
36 Legat. 166–73.
37 Note how Smallwood, Philonis Alexandri Legatio, 318, Nikiprowetzky, Le commen-
taire, 59, 86, and others have so presumed this, n. 4 supra. A major problem with taking
these interpreters at face value any more is that the modern understanding of the use and
non-use of various forms of the divine name has changed dramatically, largely due to MS
finds from Egypt and the Judean desert and the subsequent academic research on them.
38 The possible evidence for gentiles (esp. Romans) knowing a Hebrew form of the name
is so remote that it is only discussed in the Appendix to this article; see infra. Of course,
it is always feasible that Agrippa and/or Helicon could have given Gaius a direct
Hebrew pronunciation, but the actual evidence we have suggests otherwise.
39 Explained by Jerome: ‘[Dei nomen est] tetragrammum, quod ajnekfwvnhton, id est
ineffabile, putaverunt et his litteris scribitur: iod, he, vau, he. Quod quidam non
intelligentes propter elementorum similitudinem, cum in Graecis libris reppererint, PIPI
legere consueverunt,’ Ep. 25.3.
40 It is best known to Septuagint scholars from a handful of Hexaplaric MSS, the oldest
of which dates to the sixth century (Codex Marchalianus, a well-preserved uncial of the
prophets) and has this form of the name written sporadically in the margins of some
books; another MS is a ninth-century palimpsest of Origen’s Hexapla which contains
square script tetragrams that look like pipis in all its columns; see B. Metzger, Manu-
scripts of the Greek Bible (Oxford 1981) 35, 94–5, 108. This word is also present very rarely
in a few magical papyri which date to the fourth century and later (e.g., PGM 3.575),
and in the prefaces to certain copies of Byzantine LXX MSS under the name of the late
fourth-century ascetic Evagrius Ponticus where the report is found that on the sacred
breastplate of the Jewish high priest pipi was inscribed. These prefaces treat the Jewish
deportations, Aristeas and the LXX editions, and the divine name. This supposed work
of Evagrius includes a reference to the so-called ‘Ten Names of God’ list and some of these
(there were several versions) contain instances of pipi; see R. Devreesse, Introduction à
l’étude des manscrits grecs (Paris 1954) 101–11, P. de Lagarde, Onomastica sacra, second ed.
(Göttingen 1887, reprint Hildesheim 1966) 229–30, and G. Mercati, ‘Sulla scrittura del
tetragramma nelle antiche versioni greche del Vecchio Testamento,’ Biblica 22 (1941)
339–66. For data on how a similar ‘Ten Names’ tradition developed within Judaism at
roughly the same time as in Christianity, see D. Green, ‘Divine Titles: Rabbinic and
42 frank shaw
and thus is far less likely to have been known to Gaius and his advisors
than the other Greek form, the trigram Iaw.41 The latter is most familiar to
modern academics from its magical and mystical usage among gnostics, on
various talismans, and in the magical papyri. However, it was not born into
these environments. It had a non-mystical Jewish history prior to its
appearance in these sources.
At least two classical authors from the mid-first century b.c.e. attest that
the name was known in a non-mystical setting among pagans. Most signifi-
cant is the comment of Diodorus of Sicily, who, in providing a catalogue of
national lawgivers and their deities, finalizes his list by referring to the Jews,
Moses, and to;n jIaw; ejpikalouvmenon qeovn.42 Here we see that the Jewish God
was understood to have been invoked by this name. It is of interest that
Diodorus was not using some secret, magical, or esoteric form of the name
comprehensible only to the initiated. All the other peoples, lawgivers, and
named gods in his catalogue were well established and known to his
readership. There is no reason for thinking that the Jewish God was any
exception.43
Qumran Scribal Techniques,’ in L. Schiffman et al. (edd.) The Dead Sea Scrolls Fifty Years
After Their Discovery (Jerusalem 2000) 501–2, 508; its germ may antedate its development
within Christianity — cf. mShebu. 4.13. From this Greek form pipi comes the pypy in the
Syriac translation of the LXX; see Metzger, Manuscripts of the Greek Bible, 35, and
Mercati, ‘Sulla scrittura,’ 342 n. 1. For an easily accessible sampling (i.e., photographs)
of many of the sources listed here and in footnotes below, the reader is encouraged to visit
the web site of LXX scholar R. Kraft at ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/earlylxx/jewishpap.
html#tetragram.
41 Iaw was likely pronounced originally as Yaho (a vocalization impossible to show in
Greek due to its inability to represent a medial ‘h’ sound) as transcriptions into Latin and
Demotic indicate: Jerome, Comm. in Ps. 8.2, CCSL 72.191; H. D. Betz (ed.), The Greek
Magical Papyri in Translation, second ed. (Chicago 1992) 249; cf. also E. R. Goodenough,
Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, vol. 2 (Princeton 1953) 192. Nevertheless, we
should probably not assume that this was widespread knowledge among many Greek
readers who most likely took it simply as it was written Ya-o; this as well as the fact
that it is represented by only three Greek letters are two reasons for my term trigram
above, even though as Yaho, one could argue it is still a four-letter name. However, using
‘tetragram’ would surely call to mind Yhwh, an error I wish to avoid. Of course, this
Greek form developed from a Hebrew one, but there is some debate over whether this is
due to a northern vs. a southern Israelite pronunciation as well as whether the tetragram
itself is more original in its shorter or longer version; for details see my The Earliest Non-
mystical Jewish Use of Iaw (Ph.D. diss., University of Cincinnati 2002) 93 n. 20; 95; 187 n.
40; henceforth ENJU. This work is available electronically (for a fee) from ProQuest
Company, formerly University Microfilms International, at www.il.proquest.com.
42 1.92.2; text in F. Vogel, Diodori Bibliotheca Historica, Teubner (Stuttgart 1888, reprint
1964) 158; also available in M. Stern, GLAJJ 1:171.
43 For an in-depth discussion of this matter, including the modern rehabilitation of
Diodorus as a reliable historian, see ENJU, 45–74.
the emperor gaius’ employment of the divine name 43
The second pagan writer to have known Iao as the name of the Jewish
God is the Roman polymath Varro. This testimony is preserved in a work
of the sixth-century Byzantine civil servant John Lydus, De Mensibus, in his
essay on the identity of the Jewish God as understood by gentiles.44 While
an initial reading of the passage may give the impression that the ‘quota-
tion’ of Varro by Lydus indicates a mystical use of Iaw by the Roman, a
consideration of the wider context reveals that this is a mere one-word
citation of Varro (i.e., the name Iaw only), and the rest of the statement
immediately surrounding it belongs to Lydus who was heavily influenced
by Neoplatonism.45 It is possible that the pagan writers Valerius Maximus
and Herennius Philo of Byblos also knew of this Greek form of the divine
name, but the evidence is, to varying degrees, muddled.46
Some believe that the NT book of Revelation also attests to a use of
Iao,47 and if true, then knowledge of this name in a non-mystical context
lasted well past Caligula’s day. In any case, a number of early Christian
copies of originally Jewish onomastica (or glossae) contain the name Iaw in
the column explaining the corresponding Hebrew name transliterated into
Greek.48 One MS of the LXX from Qumran contains this form of the name
instead of the Hebrew tetragram or kuvrio" as in other sources.49 The fact
that Iaw is present in the writings of some church fathers (in a non-mystical
context), usually when they draw on the above-mentioned onomastica
while expounding the meaning of originally Hebrew theophoric personal
names, indicates that knowledge of Iaw continued in some circles well past
the age of Gaius.50 Naturally, we cannot expect gentiles such as Caligula
and his advisors to have been directly familiar with these sources, but again
Agrippa and Helicon may well have been. It is interesting to note further
that Varro is the first Latin author we know of who employed glossae51 and
he knew of this name Iaw. Thus it is not so remote to countenance that he
or his source material on the Jews could have been aware of these name
lists containing Iao,52 and he undoubtedly was heavily read by a wide
Roman audience.53
See P. W. Skehan et al., DJD IX, Qumran Cave 4, IV (Oxford 1992) 8, 10–11, 167–177. The
latest discussion of the import of Iao in the LXX textual tradition based on this MS may
be found in E. Tov, ‘The Greek Biblical Texts from the Judean Desert,’ in S. McKendrick
and O. O’Sullivan, (edd.) The Bible as Book: The Transmission of the Greek Text (London–
Newcastle–Grand Haven, Michigan 2003) 112–3, 121. I thank Otto Nordgreen of the
University of Oslo, Norway for the Tov reference.
50 Origen most likely employed an onomasticon for the use of Iaw in his commentary on
John when explaining the meaning of the prophet Jeremiah’s name, metewrismo;" Iaw,
2.196, E. Preuschen (ed.), Origenes Werke IV. Der Johanneskommentar, GCS 10 (Leipzig
1903) 53. Also attributed to Origen are two occurrences of Iah at Sel. Ps. 2, PG 12.1104.
Eusebius has two instances of Iaw when giving etymologies of biblical characters’ names:
jIwsoue; dev ejstin Iaw swthriva, tou't j e[stin qeou' swthvrion, Dem. Ev. 4.17.23, I. Heikel (ed.),
Eusebius Werke VI. Die Demenstratio Evangelica, GCS 6 (Leipzig 1913) 200; Iwsedek . . .
eJrmhneuvetai Iaw dikaiosuvnh, Eclog. Proph. 3.23, PG 22.1148–9. Theodoret refers to Iaw in
quoting Herennius Philo of Byblus, Affect. 2.44, and he once must have used an onomasti-
con with Iaw to expound the appellation of the Nethinim. The reference here to tou'to to;
o[ n oma, though perhaps initially difficult to see, is to the earlier mentioned Nethinim:
eu|ron de; kai; ejn th/' tw'n eJbrai>kw'n ojnomavtwn eJrmhneiva/ tou'to dhlou'n to; o[noma dovsin Iaw,
toutevsti, tou' o[nto" Qeou', N. Fernández Marcos and J. R. B. Saiz, (edd.), Quaest. in I
Paral., Theodoreti Cyrensis Quaestiones in Reges et Paralipomena, Editio critica (Madrid
1984) 248. For confirmation of this identification cf. the onomastic entry Naqanivou dovsi"
kuriv o u, On. Vat. 196.91–2, Lagarde, Onomastica sacra, 220, and Procopius of Gaza’s
similar etymology: Naqinanaioi de par j JEbaioi" qeou dosi" eJrmhneuetai, unaccented text
from F. Wutz, Onomastica Sacra, TU 41 (Leipzig 1914–15) 1065. Two names in Hesychius
are glossed with meanings containing instances of Iaw, jIwaqavm Iaw suntevleia, and
jOzeiav" ijscu;" Iaw, K. Latte, (ed.), Hesychii Alexandrini Lexicon, vol. 2 e-o (Copenhagen
1966) 385, 736, and although he was likely a pagan, the entries are probably the work of
an unknown ecclesiastical interpolator, P. J. Rhodes and R. Browning, ‘Hesychius,’ The
OCD, third ed. revised (Oxford 2003) 701–2.
51 R. A. Kaster, ‘glossa, glossary, Latin,’ OCD, 640.
52 Just slightly later in time Alexander Polyhistor used Jewish-Hellenistic authors
directly, Stern, GLAJJ 1.157.
53 The ancient testimony to Varro’s supreme erudition is impressive: Dionysius of
Halicarnassus calls him ajnh;r tw'n kata; aujth;n hJlikivan ajkmasavntwn polupeirovtato", 2.21.2;
Quintilian designates him vir Romanorum eruditissimus, Inst. 10.1.95; Tarentianus
Maurus characterizes him as vir doctissimus undecumque, Gramm. Lat. 6.409; John Lydus
the emperor gaius’ employment of the divine name 45
Thus the available evidence points toward concluding that the form of
the name invoked by the emperor was Iaw. One pertinent aside that should
be of interest to Philonic scholars is the question of what manifestation of
the divine name appeared in Philo’s copies of the onomastica which he
employed so frequently in providing his sometimes surprising etymo-
logies.54 Contrary to previous opinion on a related matter,55 in an article
appearing in this journal some years ago textual critic James Royse has
argued that Philo’s Bible did not contain kyrios as the representation of the
Hebrew tetragrammaton, but the actual tetragram itself. Thus for Royse
Philo was responsible for changing hwhy to kuvrio" each time he quoted a
scripture containing the tetragram.56 Royse’s strongest support for his
position is the textual evidence he rallies.57 In a similar vein given what we
now know about the divine name in the onomastica, should we not also
ask whether Philo saw Iaw regularly in his copies of these name lists and
changed the entries to the correctly inflected forms of kuvrio" when citing
them in his commentaries or whether he employed onomastica that
already had kuvrio" in the interpretation column?58 In our present state of
knowledge the answer to this query must remain indefinite, but it is now
fitting for academics to question any past suppositions they might have
formed on this matter since the evidence available to answer it is no longer
considered clear.
In response to the questions proposed in this article’s first paragraph we
may reply that Gaius did indeed utter a form of the divine name, but that
Philo’s expressing precisely who was ajkatonovmasto" among the Jews is
less than clear. Our author may well have intentionally played with the
syntax here to convey a double meaning, in spite of scholars historically
taking up single, differing positions on understanding his words. Such
deliberate ambiguity is not without precedent within Philo’s sizeable
corpus. It is highly likely that Caligula knew of a nameless god or gods
(whether from a philosophical or practical perspective), and candidates for
informing him about both the Jewish practice of not speaking God’s name
and what the ‘impermissible’ pronunciation was are not lacking. The
supposition of previous generations of Philonic scholars that the name used
here was Yhwh rests on unsupported assumptions rather than actual
evidence. Testimony available from the pertinent time period points rather
to the form Iao as the best known proper name for the Jewish God since it
long survived any living Hebrew pronunciation. Finally, Philonic scholars
today need to give consideration to what form of the divine name our
Alexandrian philosopher actually read in his own copies of (1) the LXX and
(2) the onomastica which he employed so regularly in his expositions.
There is not much evidence for any Roman knowledge of the Hebrew
form Yahweh (or any related abbreviation of it). One exceedingly remote
exception in this vein may be a statement found in the elder Pliny. At NH
30.11 he writes: ‘Est et alia magices factio a Mose et Ianne et Latope [or
Iotape] ac Iudaeis pendens, sed multis milibus annorum post Zoroastern.’59
Charles Cutler Torrey has argued that the Latopes here is a corruption of
89; jIhsou" is swthriva kurivou at Mut. 121 but Iw swthriva in the Heidelberg (Wutz, Ono-
mastica sacra, 676; Iaw was shortened to Iw in some MSS). The Heidelberg onomasticon is
also handily available in A. Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East, second English ed.
(London 1927, reprint Grand Rapids 1978) 405–6.
59 The text is available in Stern, GLAJJ, 1.498, as well as C. Mayhoff (ed.), C. Plini
Secundi Naturalis Historiae, vol. 4 (Stuttgart 1897, reprint 1967) 423; for a text that may
be more updated, see A. Ernout (ed.), Pline l’ancien, Histoire naturelle, livre XXX, Budé
(Paris 1963) 27. Here Ernout prints ‘Iotape’ in the text. For the explanation of this
reading, see infra.
the emperor gaius’ employment of the divine name 47
Iotape, which is in turn simply a spelling out of the two Greek letters iota
and pe (= pi).60 If this is so, he then maintains, the iota and pe/pi are
remnants of an original tetragram in the form discussed supra, that is, PIPI.
Of course, the letters would first have to be inverted to yield iota-pi-iota-pi,
and then half of the name would have to drop out in order to produce this
form. To support the first condition, Torrey appeals to the ‘Septuagintal’
text of Daniel 9.2 which has a Greek th'/ gh'/ or better, THGH, for the Hebrew
tetragram and ‘Theodotion’s’ kurivou. James A. Montgomery has noted
that the text likely had an earlier PIPI which an unknown scribe in the
LXX’s history could not understand and made into THGH. This at least
‘made some kind of sense and so has been preserved.’61 Torrey sees an
inversion of the PIPI to IPIP here, something which might more readily
be taken as THGH. To fill the bill on the second condition, Torrey latches on
to the fact that the tetragram was frequently ‘abbreviated to a monsyllable,
Yah,’62 a well-known phenomenon. Finally, Torrey notes: ‘Latope is not the
only reading of the text in this passage; Iotape is at least equally well
attested.’63
The small reaction available to Torrey’s idea has been mixed. The editor
and translator of the Loeb edition of Pliny, W. H. S. Jones, seems convinced
by Torrey’s argument, as his note states: ‘Pliny should have written Iotape
= ijw'ta ph' = Yahweh.’64 As already mentioned in notes 59 and 63, the Budé
editor adopts ‘Iotape’ in the text, and defends it less on textual grounds
than on sense. However, Stern seems quite unconvinced by Torrey: ‘The
name Latopes remains an enigma and the attempt made by Torrey to
solve it is not successful,’ but Stern does not explain why he is unmoved by
Torrey’s thinking.65 Quoting Torrey’s closing words are apt. He proffers
that the name may go back to a well-known sorcerer who took on this
appellation ‘as his chief resource’66 but also reminds his readers that Pliny
‘may have misunderstood his information. The latter alternative is by far
the more probable, as all those know who have had much to do with the
Natural History.’67 For our purposes, even if Torrey is onto something here,
the odds that any Romans grasped some ‘proper’ Hebrew pronunciation
from this mixed up and shortened form of the divine name, if indeed it is
such, are virtually nil.
One other possible line of evidence which might support a confused, and
therefore remote, knowledge of a Hebrew name for God among Romans
is based on the much-mooted passage about Jewish Jove-Sabazius wor-
shipers in Valerius Maximus.68 Here the Iove, pronounced Yo-weh in classi-
cal Latin, may be connected with some sort of original Yahweh. But little
else can be said on this matter, partly because the passage is an epitome of
Valerius with additional textual difficulties.69 There simply is no other even
negligibly feasible evidence for the name Yahweh among educated
Romans.
Cincinnati, Ohio
66 In favor of this may be the fact that Moses and the Egyptian (not Israelite) priest
Jannes are both well-known from tradition; for the latter see Albert Pietersma, ‘Jannes
and Jambres,’ ABD, 3:638–40.
67 Torrey, ‘The Magic of ‘Latopes’’, 327.
68 Valerius Maximus, Facta et dicta memorabilia, 1.3.3. The text is also in Stern, GLAJJ
1:358.
69 For further discussion of the many complex problems with, and criticism of certain
scholarly postions on, this text, see ENJU 97–115, 217. For the issue of dating when the
divine name of the Hebrew God began to move from the non-mystical realm into the
mystical/gnostic/magical one and the closely related problem of scholars carelessly
jumping across centuries when citing data on matters of the divine name’s use and disuse,
as well as the Jewish God’s being perceived as nameless, and modern academics assuming
that the name Iaw was always mystical/magical, see 184–94.
The Studia Philonica Annual XVII (2005) 49–94
Introduction
1 Special thanks to Erich Gruen and Pieter W. van der Horst for suggestions. Pieter also
kindly sent me a manuscript of his excellent recent book a year before its publication,
Philo’s Flaccus: The First Pogrom; Introduction, Translation and Commentary, Philo of
Alexandria Commentary Series 2 (Leiden, 2003). On using ‘Judeans’ to capture ancient
ethnic connotations and avoid anachronisms that beset ‘Jew,’ see my article, ‘Jewish
Pilgrimage and Jewish Identity in Hellenistic and Early Roman Egypt’, in D. Frankfurter
(ed.), Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt (Leiden, 1998) 99–225, esp. 222–23.
The problems are evident in G. Bohak, ‘Good Jews, Bad Jews, and Non-Jews in Greek
Papyri and Inscriptions’, in B. Kramer et al. (edd.), Akten des 21. internationalen
Papyrologenkongresses (Stuttgart, 1997) 1.105–12. See esp. M. R. Niehoff, Philo on Jewish
Identity and Culture (Tübingen, 2001) 19–44; S. J. D. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness:
Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley, 1999) passim, though both prefer to
continue using ‘Jew.’
2 H. I. Bell and W. E. Crum (edd.), Jews and Christians in Egypt: The Jewish Troubles in
Alexandria and the Athanasian Controversy (Oxford, 1924) 1–37, plate I. For full
bibliography, see Van der Horst, Philo’s Flaccus. For recent surveys, see J. J. Collins,
Between Athens and Jerusalem: Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora, 2nd ed. (Grand
Rapid, 2000) 113–38; J. M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora from Alexander
to Trajan (323 b.c.e. – 117 c.e.) (Berkeley, 1996) 48–78; Joseph Mélèze-Modrzejewski, The
Jews of Egypt: From Ramses II to Emperor Hadrian (Philadelphia, 1995) 161–83. The
most influential study is still V. A. Tcherikover, CPJ 1, pp. 48–78; CPJ 2, pp. 25–81. For a
different view, see A. Kasher, The Jews in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt: The Struggle for
Equal Rights, TSAJ 7 (Tübingen, 1985), esp. 18–24; but see the qualifications in S.
Honigman, ‘The Jewish Politeuma at Heracelopolis’, SCI 21 (2002) 251–66; Honigman,
‘Philon, Flavius Josèphe, et la citoyenneté alexandrine: vers une utopie politique’, JJS 48
(1997) 62–90, esp. 86.
50 allen kerkeslager
3 E.g., E. S. Gruen, Diaspora: Jews Amidst Greeks and Romans (Cambridge, MA, 2002) 54–
83; P. Schäfer, Judeophobia: Attitudes toward the Jews in the Ancient World (Cambridge,
M A , 1997) 136–69; cf. earlier, M. Radin, The Jews Among the Greeks and Romans
(Philadelphia, 1915) 199–203.
4 Perceptively in W. Ameling, ‘ ‘Market-Place’ und Gewalt: Die Juden in Alexandrien 38
n.Chr.’, Würzburger Jahrbücher für die Altertumswissenschaft 27 (2003) 71–124. After this
article was first submitted, S. Gambetti kindly gave me a copy of her dissertation, The
Alexandrian Riots of 38 c.e. and their Implications for the Experience of the Jews of the
Diaspora: A Historical Assessment (Ph.D. Dissertation; Berkeley: University of Califor-
nia Berkeley, 2003). She still attributes a major role to the trio studied here, but makes a
genuine effort to account for the responsibility of the Roman authorities. For my own
view of the Roman issues, see A. Kerkeslager, ‘Agrippa and the Mourning Rites for
Drusilla in Alexandria’, JSJ, forthcoming.
5 E.g., Philo Flacc. 16–32; Legat. 162–78, 203–206.
6 E.g., hostile advisors pepper the Persian court in Herodotus, Esther, and Daniel; the
execution of Alexandrian heroes is blamed on Judeans in the Roman court rather than
violation of Roman policy in Herbert A. Musurillo, The Acts of the Pagan Martyrs: Acta
Alexandrinorum (Oxford, 1954) nos. 4, 8 (CPJ 2.156, 157); the Gospels distract from Jesus’
disruption of the Roman order by playing up Judean influence on Pilate; e.g., see J.
Dominic Crossan, Who Killed Jesus? Exposing the Roots of Anti-Semitism in the Gospel
Story of the Death of Jesus (New York, 1996). More positive but still largely fictional are
the characters in the courts discussed by E. Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The
Reinvention of Jewish Tradition (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1998) 189–245.
7 On this, see more fully below. Note the warning about creative Jews rewriting history
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 51
same emotions that assured the enduring popularity of Homer, allusions to the fall of
Troy in the classical tragedians and Vergil, and historical narratives of the conquests of
Alexander, Julius Caesar, and other generals.
17 Rightly, Kraus, ‘Philosophical History’, 484–85; Musurillo, Acts, 96. See H. Weir
Smyth, Greek Grammar (Cambridge, MA, 1984) 267, 270 (sections 986, 1000).
18 On ‘tamperer,’ note that the terms parallel to grammatokÊfvn in Flacc. 20 suggest civic
disruption. The use of this term again in Flacc. 131 appears in a context describing
tampering with civic documents. Thus the term is not a mere insulting reference to the
crooked back of the writer, but rather refers to ‘one who writes crookedly,’ here in the
sense of corrupting documents.
19 Compare Flacc. 20–21 with Flacc. 131 (grammatokÊfvn), 135 (dhmokÒpow), 137 (taraji-
pÒliw); see the discussion of the legal problems of Lampo and Isidoros below.
20 On the connection between ˆnoma érx∞w and toÎnoma in Flacc. 20–21, which indicates
that the subject of kekrãthke is Flaccus, see Van der Horst, Philo’s Flaccus, 58, 111.
54 allen kerkeslager
his readers, especially those who were Roman, to conclude that the plots of
Flaccus against the Judeans were ultimately contrary to Roman interests in
the city.21 Philo emphasizes a similar contrast between the actions of Gaius
and Roman ethical and political virtues in the Legatio.22 Philo clearly did not
want the actions of Flaccus or Gaius to establish a precedent for the Roman
treatment of Judeans.
The broader literary context adds even further insight into why Philo
used the names of Dionysios, Lampo, and Isidoros in Flacc. 18–21. Numer-
ous parallels between the beginning and the end of the In Flaccum suggest
that Philo constructed his narrative around an overall inclusio structure.23
Among these are the parallels between the allusion to the Lamponian and
Isidorian advisors in Flacc. 18–21 and the description of the role of Lampo
and Isidoros in the downfall of Flaccus in Flacc. 125–47. This inclusio sug-
gests that Philo inserted the names of Lampo and Isidoros into Flacc. 18–21
to dramatically foreshadow the denouement of Flaccus. As will become
clear in our later discussion of Flacc. 125–47, the primary role of Lampo and
Isidoros in Philo’s description of the denouement of Flaccus was to
intensify the irony and sense of providential justice in his downfall (e.g.,
Flacc. 103, 125–28, 146–47).24 Philo emphasized this irony by elaborating the
role reversal of ruler and subject that occurred when Lampo and Isidoros
brought charges against Flaccus (Flacc. 125–47). Precisely the same theme
of the reversal of ruler and subject dominates Flacc. 16–24. The names of
Lampo and Isidoros thus probably were introduced into Flacc. 20–21 to
21 Most likely the assumed audience included both Judeans and Romans; Van der Horst,
Philo’s Flaccus, 13–14; cf. Borgen, ‘Philo’s Against Flaccus’, 48–57. For a predominantly
Gentile audience, see especially Meiser, ‘Gattung’, 423–26; so even V. Tcherikover,
‘Jewish Apologetic Literature Reconsidered’, Eos 48/3 (1956) 169–93, esp. 182–83; Good-
enough, Politics, 9–11. Unconvincing is the limited Judean audience advocated by
Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity, 33–44. The publication process in antiquity suggests
that an elite such as Philo probably would have sent copies of his major works to a
network of aristocratic friends in various cities of the empire; C. P. Jones, ‘T h e
Circulation of Literary Texts in the Roman World’, CQ 37 (1987) 213–23; B. A. van
Groningen, ‘ÖEkdosiw’, Mnemosyne (Batava; ser. 4) 16 (1963) 1–17. Any effort to limit
these friends to Judeans in the case of Philo’s two major works dealing with elite Roman
villains ignores the close relationship between the Roman aristocracy and Philo’s
family; e.g., see K. G. Evans, ‘Alexander the Alabarch: Roman and Jew’, SBLSPS 34
(1995) 576–94.
22 E.g., Legat. 22–40, 66–113, 140–65, 276–329.
23 E.g., the early and later rehearsals of the glories of Flaccus (Flacc. 1–5; cf. 152, 158,
163); the description of the arrival of Agrippa before the violence and the description of
the arrival of the military legate after the violence (Flacc. 25–28; cf. 109–115); the
suppression of the Alexandrian clubs and the subversive activity of Isidoros in the clubs
(Flacc. 4, 135–45). Cf. Kraus, ‘Philosophical History’, 482–83.
24 See more fully below.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 55
precondition the reader for the dramatic function that these two characters
would serve in the later narrative of the denouement of Flaccus.
In our subsequent discussion of Dionysios it will be suggested that he
could not appear in the narrative of the denouement of Flaccus because he
had been executed by Flaccus before any of the events in the In Flaccum
occurred (below). If this is correct, it would add a particularly haunting
twist of irony to Philo’s use of his name for one of the masks worn by the
advisors of Flaccus in Flacc. 18–21. For the original readers, such an
appearance of a figure who had already been executed would signify that
the ghost of this executed Alexandrian hero had enticed Flaccus to his
downfall like the avenging shades in a Greek tragedy.25 As with the names
of Lampo and Isidoros, the name of Dionysios would have been introduced
into Flacc. 18–21 to intensify the irony of the narrative.
One must conclude that Philo’s allusion to our trio in Flacc. 18–21 was
purely rhetorical and dramatic in its design. The actual enemies of Flaccus
described here are unnamed and unknown.
A final point that must be noted about this passage is that the literary
artistry it displays raises grave obstacles to any attempt to read it as a
straightforward record of actual events. This problem extends to the entire
section of the narrative describing the purported conspiracy against the
Judeans (Flacc. 16–24). Examples of literary artistry in this section include
the following: the dramatic use of our trio’s names as disguises for the
provincial enemies of Flaccus (above); the stereotypically Philonic identi-
fication of their evil character as ‘Egyptian’;26 the fictional speech that Philo
constructs for these enemies;27 the common ancient literary motif of a
feigned reconciliation between erstwhile enemies;28 the conveniently Plato-
nic contrast between appearance and reality in this reconciliation; 29 and the
calculated contrast between the actions of the Roman prefect and normal
Roman policy (above). These details seriously undermine the veracity of
this section. Philo’s earlier portrait of Flaccus as an exemplary prefect casts
further doubt on the reliability of his portrait of the deterioration and
inveiglement of Flaccus (Flacc. 2–8; cf. also 92–93, 125–47). Philo provides a
25 Cf. the avenging furies of the Judeans (toÊtvn . . . afl poina¤) in Flacc. 175 and the
general notion of madness induced by the furies in Flacc. 162–80; cf. similarly, Euripides
Iph.T. 218–319. For a classic description of the close relationship between a murder
victim and the furies (ÉErinÊew), see Aeschylus Eu. (passim), esp. 1–142; cf. Ag. 1468–1611.
26 See Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity, 45–74. Cf. E. Birnbaum, ‘Philo on the Greeks: A
Jewish Perspective on Culture and Society in First-Century Alexandria’, SPhA 13 (2001)
37–58.
27 Cf. Meiser, ‘Gattung’, 419–21.
28 E.g., Lucian Tox. 9; cf. A. Pelletier, In Flaccum: Introduction, Traduction et Notes
(Paris, 1967) 182–84.
29 Kraus, ‘Philosophical History’, 491–92.
56 allen kerkeslager
rationale that seamlessly adapts this earlier praise of Flaccus to his broader
agenda of condemning him (Flacc. 6–7). But it seems unlikely that Philo
would have conceded any praise to Flaccus at all if there were no grounds
for it. That there were such grounds is clearly evident in the documentary
evidence, which even decades later preserves the memory of a competent
Flaccus but seems unaware of any bamboozled Flaccus.30
Perhaps it is precisely the contrast between Philo’s portrait of a
competent Flaccus and his portrait of a bamboozled Flaccus that explains
the great artistic effort that Philo devoted to the caricature of bamboozle-
ment in Flacc. 16–24. Philo probably constructed this caricature to respond
to arguments by opponents who insisted that Flaccus had impeccably
adhered to standard Roman policy in the events in 38.31 Philo even may
have first employed an early sketch of his bamboozled Flaccus as an
apologetic strategy during the hearings before the emperor in 39 (probably
not 40).32 In these hearings Philo would have employed this image of
bamboozlement not to accuse Flaccus, who had already been executed, but
30 OGIS 669 (IGRR 1.1263; SB 5.8444), esp. lines 26–29. For earlier evidence suggesting
that Flaccus admirably fulfilled routine duties, see Chrest. Wilck. 13; O. Wilck. 1372
(Chr. Wilck 414). Less helpful are IGRR 1.1290 (SB 5.8392), C.23, fragmentary Nilometer
date; OGIS 661 (IGRR 1.1263; SB 5.8329), lacuna in dating formula in dedicatory
inscription. Uncertain is P. Giss. Lit. 4.7 (P. Giss. Univ. 5.46 + P. Yale 2.107 [inv. 1385];
Musurillo, Acts, no. 3), esp. col. 5.4–5, suggested by A. Stein, Die Präfekten von Ägypten in
der Römischen Kaiserzeit (Bern, 1950) 27. Similarly obscure is Philo Somn. 2.123–32,
surveyed with an unconvincing alternative in D. R. Schwartz, ‘Philonic Anonyms of the
Roman and Nazi Periods: Two Suggestions’, SPhA 1 (1989) 63–73; cf. also R. Kraft, ‘Philo
and the Sabbath Crisis: Alexandrian Jewish Politics and the Dating of Philo’s Works’,
in B. A. Pearson (ed.), The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester
(Minneapolis, 1991) 131–41.
31 For more on this, see Kerkeslager, ‘Agrippa and the Mourning Rites for Drusilla.’
32 For a date in 39, see convincingly D. R. Schwartz, Agrippa I: The Last King of Judaea
(Tübingen, 1990) 78–88, 196–99, against the date in 40 advocated by E. M. Smallwood,
Philonis Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium: Edited with an Introduction, Translation and
Commentary, 2nd ed. (Leiden, 1970) 24–31, 47–50, 321; similarly, Smallwood, The Jews
Under Roman Rule: From Pompey to Diocletian, SJLA 20 (Leiden, 1976) 242–45. A date in
39 is also preferred by Harker, Loyalty and Dissidence, 254–55; C. Salvaterra,
‘Considerazioni sul Progetto di Caligola di Vistare Alessandria’, in L. Criscuolo and G.
Geraci (edd.), Egitto e Storia Antica dall’Ellenismo all’Età Araba: Bilancio di un Confronto
(Bologna, 1989) 631–56; P. J. Sijpesteijn, ‘The Legationes ad Gaium’, JJS 15 (1964) 87–96.
The fullest discussion of the chronology is Gambetti, Alexandrian Riots, 1–30, although
for the summer of 38, see Kerkeslager, ‘Agrippa and the Mourning Rites for Drusilla.’
Philo was in Rome when Gaius ordered his statue set up, so Philo would have heard of
the order long before Petronius in Syria. If the order was given shortly after a hearing in
the early autumn of 39 (before Gaius’ departure for the German campaign; cf. Legat. 356),
Petronius would not have received it until it was almost winter. Since Petronius could not
have taken much action until spring, this fits perfectly with Philo’s reference to
subsequent events in the spring of 40 (Legat. 248–49).
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 57
to argue that the official decisions of Flaccus about the Judeans of Alexan-
dria were an aberration from standard Roman policy. Philo’s goal would
have been to persuade Gaius to mitigate or reverse the affects of his pre-
fect’s decisions. Later conflicts over Judean rights at the time Philo penned
his In Flaccum may have compelled him to reinvigorate this apologetic
strategy in this narrative.
Thus our trio’s absence as actual individuals from Flacc. 18–21 may not
be the only obstacle to charging them with a conspiracy on the eve of the
violence in 38. Flaccus might not have been manipulated by any provincial
enemies at all.33 If Philo’s opponents were correct, Flaccus may have
remained an ideal epitome of Roman imperialism throughout the summer
of 38.
(2) Second, our trio is completely absent from Philo’s major descriptions
of the violence against the Judeans (Flacc. 36–96; Legat. 119–37). The generic
use of the name of Dionysios in Flacc. 20 is Philo’s only allusion to him. The
names of Lampo and Isidoros do not reappear in the In Flaccum until after
Philo has finished describing the violence and begins describing the arrival
of Flaccus in Rome in the winter of 38–39. The subsequent details about
Lampo and Isidoros make no reference to any interaction between them
and Judeans at all, whether friendly or hostile (Flacc. 125–47).
Philo may, of course, be charged with directing attention away from our
trio to enhance the guilt of Flaccus, who is the evil tragic protagonist of the
In Flaccum. But in the Legatio Philo is still able to impugn Flaccus while
directing his fusillade against Gaius (Legat. 132). This indicates that if Philo
had wanted to attribute a leading role in the violence to our trio he could
have done so without detracting from his criticisms of either Flaccus or
Gaius. The simplest explanation for Philo’s failure to assign a leading role in
the violence to our trio is that they had no such role.
(3) Third, the only segment of the In Flaccum that actually describes the
activity of any members of our trio as individuals indicates that their
preeminent role in the In Flaccum is that of enemies of Flaccus, not enemies
of the Judeans. This segment is Flacc. 125–47. The frequent attempts to
transmogrify Philo’s statements about Lampo and Isidoros in this section
into evidence that they were ‘anti-Semites’ fly directly in the face of Philo’s
own stated intentions. Philo’s repeated, elaborate, and explicit statements at
the introduction and conclusion of Flacc. 125–47 indicate that his one single
goal in this section of his narrative was to emphasize that the downfall of
Flaccus was due to divine intervention.34 Philo’s statements identify this
divine activity with ‘divine providence’ (ye¤a prono¤a), ‘Justice’ (D¤kh), and
a sovereign penchant for irony (Flacc. 125–28, 146–47). Illustrating these
themes was the primary reason that Philo devoted any space to Lampo
and Isidoros at all.
This point cannot be overemphasized because it is so consistently
ignored. The portion of the In Flaccum devoted to Lampo and Isidoros is in
fact only the third part of a larger section in which Philo elaborates three
illustrations of the providential activity of divine justice in the downfall of
Flaccus (Flacc. 104–47).35 These three illustrations are explicitly enumerated
‘first’ (pr«ton), ‘also’ (ka¤), and ‘third’ (tr¤ton; Flacc. 104, 116, 125). The first
illustration was the termination of the prefecture of Flaccus by an arrest in
his very home (Flacc. 104–15). In this Philo found a just retribution for the
expulsion of Judeans from their homes (Flacc. 115). The second was the
fortuitous timing of the arrest of Flaccus during the festival of Sukkoth
(Flacc. 116–24). Philo perceived a providential irony in the way that this
recalled Pharaoh’s humiliation and other events commemorated in the
festival. The third illustration was the action of Lampo and Isidoros as
accusers of Flaccus during his trial (Flacc. 125–47). Philo claimed that their
role in his trial revealed the action of providential justice because it
ironically reversed the earlier positions of prosecutor and prosecuted (Flacc.
125–28, 145–47). Like the other two illustrations of providential justice in
Flacc. 104–47, the chronicle of the activity of Lampo and Isidoros in Flacc.
125–47 was introduced to furnish Judean readers with a theodicy and warn
Gentile readers of the dangers of hubris against the Judeans and their
God.36
Perhaps one reason that Philo’s rhetorical goal in manipulating the
characters of Lampo and Isidoros has been so easily ignored is that it is so
34 Unfortunately scholars often divide the literary structure of the In Flaccum after
Flacc. 145 and assign Flacc. 146–47 to the next section of the narrative; e.g., Van der Horst,
Philo’s Flaccus, 6–9; Pelletier, In Flaccum, 42. This obscures the literary function of Flacc.
125–28 and 146–147. Both of these passages deal with the trial of Flaccus; in contrast,
Flacc. 148 begins a description of the punishments that followed the trial. Further, Flacc.
125–28 and 146–47 have close parallels with each other. These and other features of
these passages indicate that they were intended to function as the introduction and
conclusion of their section, which thus embraces all of Flacc. 125–47.
35 On the themes of providence and justice elsewhere in Philo’s narrative, see, e.g., Van
der Horst, Philo’s Flaccus, 16–17; C. Kraus [Reggiani], Filone Alessandrino e un’ora tragica
della storia ebraica (Napoli, 1967) 49–54. P. Frick, Divine Providence in Philo of Alexandria
(Tübingen, 1999), includes only a passing treatment of the In Flaccum and Legatio, but has
useful general comments and bibliography about these themes.
36 For the ethnically mixed elite audience of the In Flaccum, see note above.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 59
unconvincing. Philo’s effort to transform the role reversal during the trial
of Flaccus into a fitting retribution for the attacks on the Judeans in 38
would have been more persuasive if he could have cited the action of
Judean accusers during this trial. Philo’s need to call on two persecuted
Greek subjects to fill a role that would have been filled more effectively by
persecuted Judean subjects unwittingly reveals that no advocate for Judean
concerns was even present during the trial of Flaccus. But closer inspection
betrays similar weaknesses in the other two illustrations of providential
justice described in Flacc. 104–47. All three illustrations were constructed
from mere coincidences that Philo exploited to establish an artificial impres-
sion of cause and affect between the attacks on the Judeans and the fate of
Flaccus.
Philo was compelled to create this artificial impression because he him-
self admitted that the real source of Gaius’ animosity toward Flaccus was
to be found in political intrigues in Rome that had nothing to do with the
Judeans (Flacc. 9–16, 22–23, 108, 180–85). Objections sometimes have been
raised against Philo’s description of these intrigues.37 But his attribution of
the arrest of Flaccus to causes unrelated to Judeans is not easily disregarded
because it appears in a narrative in which Philo wanted to vilify Flaccus for
uniquely Judean concerns.38 Philo employed Lampo and Isidoros to create
the impression of a supernatural relationship of cause and affect between
the attacks on the Judeans and the demise of Flaccus because he was fully
aware that no genuine relationship existed at all.
Once the rhetorical goal in Philo’s description of Lampo and Isidoros in
Flacc. 125–47 is recognized, the nuances of Philo’s literary artistry in this
section can be more fully appreciated. The description of the activities of
Lampo and Isidoros takes the form of an interruption that flashes
backward to the period before the accession of Gaius in 37 (Flacc. 128–45;
on the dates, see below). This flashback allows Philo to describe the original
legal conflicts in Alexandria that compelled them to bring charges against
Flaccus in Rome in 38–39 (Flacc. 125–47). When Philo finishes describing the
37 See esp. Sherwin-White, ‘Philo and Avillius Flaccus’, 820–28. See correctly Van der
Horst, Philo’s Flaccus, 207, against Gruen, Diaspora, 60–61. A full treatment of the arrest
of Flaccus would require a separate study; for now, see Barrett, Caligula, 23, 39, 66, 80, 90;
P. A. Brunt, ‘Charges of Provincial Maladministration Under the Early Principate’,
Historia (Wiesbaden) 10 (1961) 189–223, esp. 203. Based on Philo Flacc. 97–103 and Legat.
178–80, it is often asserted that Agrippa’s advocacy for the Judeans played a role in the
arrest of Flaccus; e.g., A. Kushnir-Stein, ‘On the Visit of Agrippa I to Alexandria in 38
AD’, JJS 51 (2000) 227–42; Schwartz, Agrippa, 74–77. Closer reading of these passages and
other related evidence raises serious doubt about Agrippa’s advocacy, however.
Unfortunately this also must be deferred to a separate study (in process).
38 The events in the Legatio indicate that Gaius would have been pleased with the
violence; explicitly, Legat. 165.
60 allen kerkeslager
confirms that Isidoros was not himself an ambassador and had never
returned to Alexandria after the legal proceedings in 33–35 that climaxed in
his departure from the city. At this point it is sufficient to note that the one
passage in which Philo singles out Isidoros for activity that is uniquely anti-
Judean refers only to events that occurred in Rome after the summer of 38.
On this Philo is in complete agreement with all of the papyri that contain
indisputable evidence for action by any of our trio against Judeans.40 Philo
shares with all of these other sources an image of provincial patriots cham-
pioning their native city in hearings before the emperor.41 Not a single
ancient source actually presents them as anti-Semitic gangsters instigating
pogroms.
The following treatment of the legal difficulties of our trio will indicate
that the sources dealing with our trio did not attribute them with this role
because they never had such a role. These legal difficulties probably
resulted in the execution of Dionysios before 38 and the complete absence
of both Lampo and Isidoros from the city for the entire year.
40 Musurillo, Acts, no. 4 (CPJ 2.156a-d); possibly P. Oxy. 42.3021; unlikely P.Lond. 6.1912
(CPJ 2.153), lines 17, 76, which would confirm my point but (as will be suggested below)
probably do not refer to our Dionysios. Judeans are not explicitly mentioned in P.Oxy.
8.1089 (CPJ 2.154). The same is true of P. Giss. Lit. 4.7 (P. Giss. Univ. 5.46 + P. Yale 2.107
[inv. 1385]; Musurillo, Acts, no. 3; cf. CPJ 2.155). Despite the probable setting of P. Giss.
Lit. 4.7 in 37, some relationship with the events in 38 has sometimes been suggested; S.
Stephens, Yale Papyri in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library II, (Chico, CA,
1985) 85–98; and especially Gambetti, Alexandrian Riots, 51–86. While I am not
persuaded by most of these arguments, it is at least possible that the accuser who is burnt
in this text is a Judean. But the setting is clearly Rome. For more on the date of this
setting in 37 rather than 38, see Harker, Loyalty and Dissidence, 44–47; Kuhlmann,
Giessener Literarischen Papyri, 119; Musurillo, Acts, 107.
41 For this portrait in the papyri, though assuming a different portrait in Philo, see
Mélèze-Modrzejewski, Jews, 174-75; M. Pucci Ben Zeev, ‘New Perspectives on the Jewish-
Greek Hostilities During the Reign of Emperor Caligula’, JSJ 21 (1990) 227-35; J. Mélèze-
Modrzejewski, ‘H D¤kh toË Is¤dvrou: Po¤nikh KatastolØ ka‹ IdeolÒgikh Anam°trhsh MetajÁ
Alejãndreiaw ka‹ R≈mhw’, Praktika tês Akadêmias Athênôn 61 (1986) 245-75, esp. 248.
However, note the caution against oversimplifying the purported ‘anti-Roman’ element
in these papyri in Harker, Loyalty and Dissidence, 215–17.
42 E.g., with qualification, Tcherikover, CPJ 2, p. 44.
62 allen kerkeslager
This list does not exhaust the weaknesses of the popular hypothesis that
P.Oxy. 8.1089 depicts a purported conspiracy against Judeans.47 The details
repeatedly emphasize a different theme.
This central theme is an impending conflict between Dionysios and
Flaccus that is unsuccessfully averted by the pleading of an old man (ı
geraiÒw).48 This theme is emphasized in a number of ways: (1) The actions
of the old man clearly signal agitated concern for Dionysios; e.g., throwing
himself down on his knees and grasping Dionysios (lines 31–32; cf. possibly
46). (2) The old man pleads: ‘Dionysios, . . . do not contend with Flaccus . . .
Change your mind, child Dionysios!’ (lines 33–38). (3) Dionysios indicates
that he has denied Flaccus before and yet will not do so a second time.
Instead, he will meet with Flaccus willingly, even though some apparent
tension with Flaccus suggests that Dionysios should avoid him (lines 38–
42). (4) The old man addresses Flaccus, ‘(I beg) you, by the Lord Sarapis,
that you do no harm to Isidoros and Dionysios’ (lines 46–49).49
This indisputable evidence of tension between Flaccus and Dionysios
implies that Flaccus poses some serious danger to both Dionysios and
Isidoros. But the focus of the threat seems to be especially on Dionysios.
Herbert Musurillo correctly recognized this and proposed that the text
might have been a fragment of an Alexandrian ‘Acts of Dionysios.’50 But
perhaps because Musurillo identified this Dionysios with a Dionysios who
was still alive in 41, he failed to reach the logical conclusion suggested by his
proposal.51 This is that the missing part of the text described the execution
of Dionysios. In other examples of the Alexandrian Acts genre the execu-
tion of Alexandrian nationalists is ordered by the emperor.52 But the prefect
53 In Antioch in 115 is Musurillo, Acts, no. 9A–B (CPJ 2.158a–b); Maria Pucci Ben Zeev,
‘Greek Attacks against Alexandrian Jews During Emperor Trajan’s reign’, JSJ 20 (1989)
31–48; Pucci [Ben Zeev], ‘CPJ 2.158, 435 e la rivolta ebraica al tempo di Traiano’, ZPE 51
(1983) 95–103. Some have occasionally seen a journey of Dionysios from Alexandria to
Rome in P. Oxy. 8.1089, lines 36–37 (∑ soË poreuy°ntow); e.g., Tcherikover, CPJ 2, p. 61. But
lines 34–35 suggest that the referent of this ‘departure’ is a trip either to ‘contend’ with
Flaccus or to ‘[sit] with the elders.’ Both of these options apply only to further action in
Alexandria. If lines 34–37 directly equate the ‘contending with Flaccus’ to the
‘departure’ of Dionysios (reading ≥ instead of ∑), the ‘departure’ might even be a euphe-
mism for dying (‘Do not contend with Flaccus . . . Or after you have gone, . . . ?’). The least
that can be said is that there is no support in the context for assuming that a journey of
Dionysios to Rome is intended by ∑ soË poreuy°ntow.
54 Flacc. 144–45; see the discussion of Isidoros below. This would at least imply some
value in the suggestion of Anton von Premerstein, Zu Den Sogenannten Alexandrinischen
Märtyrerakten (Leipzig, 1923) 6–7, who proposed that the text referred to payment for an
exit permit. Unfortunately his treatment of the text is based on a host of erroneous
assumptions and tenuous emendations; cf. Tcherikover, CPJ 2, pp. 60–64.
55 Probably not Flaccus, contra Mélèze-Modrzejewski, Jews, 169, who presupposes the
relevance of the alleged alliance in Philo Flacc. 18–21, which is subject to the criticisms
described above. The unlikelihood of Philo’s scenario of the Roman prefect expecting
provincials to protect him from the emperor has already been mentioned above; cf.
Sherwin-White, ‘Philo and Avillius Flaccus’, 825.
56 Gnomon 37 (B G U 5.1210.101–105; dupl. P. Oxy. 42.3014.5–10); for payment of
securities by others, see, e.g., P. Hib. 1.92. See more fully the discussion of Isidoros below.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 65
57 Musurillo, Acts, 102–104, 218, though Musurillo identifies the executed Theon with
Theon the exegete in Acts, no. 4A.1–2 (CPJ 2.156a). This identification is unlikely; Theon
the exegete was executed by the machinations of Isidoros and his placement together
with Lampo and Isidoros as executed heroes would be a bit strained. However, Harker,
Loyalty and Dissidence, 54–55, proposes that the later authors in the Alexandrian Acts
tradition simply were confused over who was responsible for the execution of Theon. For
more on possible members of this family, see Naphtali Lewis, ‘Literati in the Service of
Roman Emperors: Politics Before Culture’, in Lionel Casson and Martin Price (edd.),
Coins, Culture and History in the Ancient World: Numismatic and Other Studies in Honor
of Bluma L. Trell (Detroit, 1981) 149–66, esp. 159; P. J. Sijpesteijn, The Family of the Tiberii
Iulii Theones (Amsterdam, 1976) 1–7.
58 Tcherikover in CPJ 2, p. 106, who identified the executed Theon of P. Oxy. 1.33
(Musurillo, Acts, no. 11; CPJ 2.159b) with the Dionysios of P. Oxy. 8.1089 because he
identified both figures with the same purported anti-Semite. Tcherikover did not
recognize that P. Oxy. 8.1089 may be a fragment of the ‘Acts of Dionysios.’
59 The identification of the executed Theon with Theon the exegete by Musurillo, Acts,
102–104, 218, is problematic if Isidoros really did aid his death because in this passage
Isidoros and Theon are placed together as if almost on equal terms as patriots.
60 For the dates, see above on Dionysios and below on Lampo and Isidoros.
66 allen kerkeslager
61 Harker, Loyalty and Dissidence, 54–55, posits a similar confusion in the later Alexan-
drian Acts tradition over responsibility for the execution of Theon; cf. note above.
62 Members of the Alexandrian elite were pressed into civic offices at an early age; D.
Delia, Alexandrian Citizenship During the Roman Principate (Atlanta, 1991) 92–93.
63 Musurillo, Acts, 118–24, preferred a date in 53, but for the date in 41, see Harker,
Loyalty and Dissidence, 27–28; Schwartz, Agrippa, 96–98; Mélèze-Modrzejewski, ‘D¤kh toË
Is¤dvrou’, 249–50; Tcherikover, CPJ 2, pp. 68–69.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 67
and the evidence for Alexandrian civic offices suggests that Lampo’s tenure
as gymnasiarch probably followed his tenure in the powerful office of
hypomnematographos (‘chief recorder’).64 Whatever Lampo’s official title
was, Philo clearly indicates that one of Lampo’s chief responsibilities was
the management of judicial records (Flacc. 131–34; cf. 20). Philo uses the
plural of ‘governors’ to describe Lampo’s activity in this official role (Flacc.
131, 133). This indicates that Lampo held the office of chief recorder or
some similar role during the rule of at least two prefects. Flaccus probably
arrived in Alexandria as prefect in the summer or fall of 32 (less likely, early
33).65 Hiberus, the predecessor of Flaccus, died soon after being appoin-
ted.66 Thus Lampo probably became the official manager of judicial records
late in the prefecture of Gaius Galerius, who ruled from 15 (or 16) to 31
c.e.67
68 Delia, Alexandrian Citizenship, 89–92, who notes that P. Lond. 6.1912.62–66 implies
an effort at restriction to three one-year terms, not a term of three years; cf. the yearly
term in P. Oxy. 8.1117.10. So also Naphtali Lewis, The Compulsory Public Services of
Roman Egypt, 2nd ed. (Firenze, 1997) 19, 64, 75–76, who notes that the application of the
one-year term in Roman Egypt was rooted in the Greek polis. The effort to limit terms to
one year may be implied in the plea for a senate (boulÆ) that would hold annual
meetings in PSI 10.1160 (Musurillo, Acts, no. 1; CPJ 2.150); A. K. Bowman and D.
Rathbone, ‘Cities and Administration in Roman Egypt’, JRS 82 (1992) 107–27, esp. 116–19.
Bowman and Rathbone’s point about the ability of a small elite to retain their official
positions for a long time does not eliminate the clear evidence of limits on their tenure
(discussed in Delia and Lewis).
69 Appeals probably were especially frequent after a change in officials gave new hope
for a more sympathetic ear; OGIS 669 (SB 5.8444; IGRR 1.1263), lines 34–40. On the role
of documents, see the much older process of appeal under the Ptolemies in P. Hal. 1.r.24–
78.
70 E.g., P. Oxy. 2.237 (Sel. Pap. 2.219); P. Fam. Tebt. 15; 24 (dupl. SB 4.7404); discussed in
W. E. H. Cockle, ‘State Archives in Graeco-Roman Egypt from 30 BC to the Reign of
Septimius Severus’, JEA 70 (1984) 106–22, esp. 121–22. See also the decree of Quintus
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 69
thrust the expense of restoration and recopying upon the most recent
manager of the archives.71 These situations reveal a pattern that includes a
threat of serious charges to the archival officials, a delay for the archival
officials to resolve the problems with the archives, and finally either prose-
cution or dismissal of the charges. This pattern seems to resonate with
what one finds in the legal difficulties that followed Lampo’s tenure as
manager of judicial records. The desperate financial straights in which he
later was found when examined for the office of gymnasiarch would be
consistent with the assumption that he had won his acquittal from the
earlier charges related to his archival activity partly by exhausting his own
finances on the repair and recopying of the archival records.72
Whether or not this is the correct explanation for the problems that
Flaccus discovered in Lampo’s activity as a manager of judicial records, it is
still probably safe to assume that Flaccus became aware of these problems
during his routine judicial business at an early point in his tenure as prefect.
This would probably date the beginning of Lampo’s legal troubles to 33 or
34.
This probably marks the beginning of the ‘two years’ during which the
hapless Lampo was on trial for ‘impiety’ (és°beia) against the emperor
Tiberius (Flacc. 128). ‘Impiety against the emperor’ clearly refers to the
charge of treason i.e., maiestas.73 Maiestas was a capital crime punishable
by execution or disfranchisement, confiscation of property, and exile.74
Veranius in M. Wörrle, ‘Zwei neue Griechische Inschriften aus Myra zur Verwaltung
Lykiens in der Kaiserzeit’, in J. Borchhardt (ed.), Myra: Eine Lykische Metropole in
antiker und byzantinischer Zeit, Istanbuler Forschungen 30 (Berlin, 1975) 254–300 and
Tafeln 99–100, esp. 255–56. Cf. SEG 33.679, in which tampering seems to be the main
concern. For the archival system in Egypt and corrections to Cockle, see F. Burkhalter,
‘Archives locales et archives centrales en Egypte romaine’, Chiron 20 (1990) 191–216.
71 P. Fam. Tebt. 15; 24 (dupl. SB 4.7404); see Cockle, ‘State Archives’, 121–22. Cf. the
physical punishments in the decree in Wörrle, ‘Zwei neue Griechische Inschriften’, 255–
56.
72 The prefect may have had a significant role in the process of choosing gymnasiarchs
in the absence of a senate; P. Lond. 6.1912.66–72. But there does seem to have been a
council of elders who could attend to the task; P. Oxy. 8.1089; P. Giss. Lit. 4.7 (P. Giss.
Univ. 5.46 + P. Yale 2.107 [inv. 1385]; Musurillo, Acts, no. 3). On the electoral process, see
P. Ryl. 2.77; P. Oxy. 8.1119; 12.1413; cf. Aristotle Ath. 55.1–5. See Delia, Alexandrian
Citizenship, 89–98.
73 For a full discussion, see B. Levick, Tiberius the Politician (New York, 1999) 180–200;
R. A. Bauman, Impietas in Principem: A Study of Treason Against the Roman Emperor
with Special Reference to the First Century A.D. (München, 1974); R. A. Bauman, The
Crimen Maiestatis in the Roman Republic and Augustan Principate (Johannesburg, 1967).
74 Dig. 48.4.1.3, 9, 11. On capital crimes, see Justinian Inst. 4.18.1–2; Dig. 48.1.1–2. Cf.
Gnomon 36–37 (BGU 5.1210.101–108; dupl. P. Oxy. 42.3014.5–14); also death in cases of
bearing arms for sedition in Chrest. Wilck. 13. Cf. R. Taubenschlag, The Law of Greco-
Roman Egypt in the Light of the Papyri: 332 B.C.–640 A.D., 2nd ed. (Warszawa, 1955)
70 allen kerkeslager
473–74.
75 Tacitus Ann. 1.72; Dig. 48.4.1–11.
76 Dig. 48.4.2. Lampo may also have been charged with other crimes; e.g., possibly
forgery (though usually applied in the case of wills) Dig. 48.10.1, 16, 20, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31–
33.
77 Once again, it should be noted that Lampo was never actually found guilty of this
charge. This is consistent with the unwillingness of Tiberius to prosecute for such charges;
cf. Levick, Tiberius the Politician, 180–200
78 Contra Delia, Alexandrian Citizenship, 157.
79 On the one-year term of Alexandrian magistracies, see above. This limit seems to
have been routine for gymnasiarchies in Egypt; e.g., P. Oxy. 8.1117; P. Lond. 3.1177 (Chr.
Wilck. 193), lines 10–27. See Delia, Alexandrian Citizenship, 89–92; Lewis, Compulsory
Public Services in Roman Egypt, 19, 64, 75–76, and next note below.
80 As was typical of gymnasiarchies elsewhere in Egypt; e.g., P. Par. 69 (Chr. Wilck. 41);
P. Oxy. 8.1117; 17.2147 (Sel. Pap. 1.173); P. Lond. 3.1177 (Chr. Wilck. 193), lines 10–27. See
Lewis, Compulsory Public Services in Roman Egypt, 19. Likewise, magistrates took office
on New Year’s Day in the province of Asia, which ca. 9 b.c.e. was assigned for this
province to September 23 (the birthday of Augustus); OGIS 458 (Sherk, RDGE 65). In the
Macedonian gymnasiarchal law, gymnasiarchs take office on the Macedonian New
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 71
Year, Dios 1 (equated with Thoth 1 in Ptolemaic Egypt around the same time the decree
was published, 2nd cent. b.c.e.); SEG 27.261, side A.34–36; cf. B.89–97; as corrected in P.
Gauthier and M. B. Hatzopoulos, La loi gymnasiarchique de Beroia, Meletemata 16
(Athenes, 1993) 17–28; on the date, see p. 55. Death or default could result in other dates
for installation in Egypt; e.g., P. Oxy. 44.3202; cf. also P. Oxy. 46.3297 (kosmetes rather
than gymnasiarch); see F. Perpillou-Thomas, Fêtes d’Égypte Ptolémaïque et Romaine
d’après la documentation papyrologique Grecque, Studia Hellenistica 31 (Lovanii, 1993)
27–28. Even though installation on Thoth 1 was typical of the gymnasiarchy and a wide
variety of offices, the tenure for some officials, especially those dealing with
agriculture, did sometimes follow different cycles; N. Lewis, On Government and Law in
Roman Egypt: Collected Papers of Naphtali Lewis (Atlanta, 1995) 81–93, 114–19.
81 As in SEG 27.261, side B.89–97; cf. B.107–109; see edition of Gauthier and Hatzo-
poulos, Loi gymnasiarchique de Beroia.
82 This is, of course, easily explicable if Flaccus himself was in control as I am suggest-
ing, rather than Lampo and Isidoros.
83 See more fully below.
84 See L. E. Lord, ‘The Date of Julius Caesar’s Departure from Alexandria’, JRS 28 (1938)
19–40. Cf. R. Chevallier, Roman Roads (London, 1976) 178–95, who is more circumspect
than L. Casson, Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient World, 2nd ed. (Baltimore, 1995)
281–99. Three months was not uncommon. E.g., Lucian Nav. 9, 35, required a trip of 70 days
from Alexandria to Athens, although this was slow and would normally have been
enough time to reach ‘Italy’ (not necessarily Rome). From Athens to Rome required at
least another 20 days; Procopius Bell. 3.13.21–23.
85 Flacc. 125–28, 146–47; cf. discussion above on Flacc. 125–47. As will become clear later,
Isidoros could not have held this office even as late as 37.
72 allen kerkeslager
86 Contra Delia, Alexandrian Citizenship, 157, who assigns the gymnasiarchy of both to
38. P. J. Sijpesteijn, Nouvelle liste des gymnasiarques des métropoles de l’Égypte romaine
(Zutphen, Holland, 1986) 52, does not mention Lampo and assigns the gymnasiarchy of
Isidoros to ‘52/3,’ apparently assuming that he died in 53 rather than 41. On Isidoros, see
below. Not at issue here is the honorific ‘perpetual gymnasiarch’; Taubenschlag, Law,
639.
87 Aside from the issue of beneficence from the new imperial patron, legal appeals were
common among provincial elite and were not limited to Roman citizens; F. Millar, The
Emperor in the Roman World (31 BC–AD 337) (Ithaca, 1977) 507–16.
88 For references to such decrees (usually called cÆfismata), see J. H. Oliver, Greek
Constitutions of Early Roman Emperors from Inscriptions and Papyri (Philadelphia,
1989), nos. 13, 14, 19, 23; cf. other decrees in nos. 7, 18, 34, 64, 107, 113, 136, et al.; see also
Philo Flacc. 97–101.
89 On embassies, see F. Kayser, ‘Les Ambassades Alexandrines à Rome (Ier–IIe Siecle)’,
REA 105 (2003) 435–68; Millar, Emperor, 375–85. The emperor assured that each worthy
ambassador would receive civic honors and any outstanding financial reimbursement by
including him in the list of names in the official response to the embassy; e.g., Oliver,
Greek Constitutions, nos. 18, 23, 24, 27, 39, 42, 44, 45, 47, 79; cf. Dig. 50.7.9–10. A recommen-
dation against such honors probably explains the ‘crown of virtue’ that the emperor says
should be denied to a hostile companion of an embassy in P. Giss. Lit. 4.7 (P. Giss. Univ.
5.46 + P. Yale 2.107 [inv. 1385]; Musurillo, Acts, no. 3); pace Gambetti, Alexandrian Riots,
54–57. Travel allowances long predate the Roman period; e.g., IG 2(2).360 (Syll. [3] 304),
lines 40–45 (325/324 b.c.e.); SEG 1.366 (MDAI[A] 1919, 25–29, no. 13; Samos 21), lines 25–
36 (ca. 240 b.c.e.). The financial implications for provincial cities are epitomized in
Pliny Ep. 10.43–44; see G. A. Souris, ‘The Size of Provincial Embassies to the Emperor
Under the Principate’, ZPE 48 (1982) 235–44; W. Williams, ‘Antoninus Pius and the
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 73
Alexandrian ambassadors left the city in the spring of 37, by the autumn of
37 he probably would have been free to sail to Rome to appeal to the
emperor concerning the manner in which Flaccus had handled his case.90
Petitions from other provincial elites in financial straits similar to
Lampo’s suggest that Lampo might have taken the opportunity to plead
with the emperor for exemption from future expensive magistracies.91 But
Philo’s description of Lampo’s role in the trial of Flaccus indicates that one
of Lampo’s chief goals was to seek revenge on his former prosecutor
(Flacc. 125–27, 135, 146–47). If the financial difficulties that Lampo experi-
enced were tied to any exploitative behavior by Flaccus, Lampo may have
attempted to charge Flaccus with extortion.92 But the precise nature of the
charges that Lampo brought against Flaccus is unclear.93 It is certain,
however, that Lampo would have recognized that cordial relationships
with the emperor’s friends and relatives could be crucial for winning his
case.94 It would have been to Lampo’s great benefit if he was already in
Rome beginning to cultivate such relationships by the time the sailing
season closed in November of 37.95
(3) A third reason for exonerating Lampo from any role in orchestrating
the violence in 38 is that Lampo’s previous protracted legal dispute over
maiestas charges would have left him in no position to risk any involvement
in incendiary activities. Any role in fomenting a riot after being accused of
the capital crime of maiestas would have exposed Lampo to grounds for
accusing him of another capital crime.96 For a suspected second offense on
this level he could not have avoided the seizure of his property and
immediate exile or, more likely, a summary execution.97 No purported
alliance with Flaccus could have eliminated the risk of such an accusation
from either Flaccus or his successor, who was expected to arrive in Alexan-
dria soon.98 In addition to the fear of criminal penalties, Lampo would not
have wanted to expose himself to any accusation that would undermine his
efforts to mount a legal counterattack against Flaccus.
Lampo’s personal interests were best served if he was in Rome for all of
38. As was already discussed earlier, Philo himself seems to imply that both
Lampo and Isidoros were already in Rome inciting Gaius against Flaccus
while the violence was going on in Alexandria. It would be best to cease
lampooning Lampo with any role in this violence.
98 Macro had been appointed to succeed Flaccus as prefect, so the death of Macro was
only a temporary setback to the inevitable replacement of Flaccus; Musurillo, Acts, no. 4B
(CPJ 2.156b) 1.14–16; Cassius Dio 59.10.6. On the role of Isidoros, see below and
Tcherikover, CPJ 2, p. 77.
99 E.g., Gruen, Diaspora, 61; Bergmann and Hoffmann, ‘Kalkül’, 27–46; J. G. Gager, The
Origins of Anti-Semitism: Attitudes Toward Judaism in Pagan and Christian Antiquity
(New York, 1983) 47–50.
100 T. Seland, ‘Philo and the Clubs and Associations of Alexandria’, in J. S. Kloppenborg
and S. G. Wilson, Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World (New York, 1996)
110–27.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 75
The same conclusion results from analysis of the extensive arrests and
public inquisition described in Flacc. 135–45. These proceedings follow
patterns typical of formal Roman investigations of masses of people.101 This
is easily explained if the events described in Flacc. 135–45 correspond to the
formal suppression of the voluntary associations described in Flacc. 4–5.102
Philo explicitly dates the suppression of these clubs to early in the rule of
Flaccus (Flacc. 2–5, 8). Hence one is again led to the conclusion that the
seditious activities of Isidoros described in Flacc. 135–45 date to ca. 33–35.
Identification of the activities of Isidoros with the suppression of the
clubs described in Flacc. 4–5 might also suggest additional evidence for an
early date for the subversive activities of Isidoros. The reported date early
in the tenure of Flaccus for the suppression of the clubs parallels the date of
an edict of Flaccus against carrying weapons, which is 34–35.103 This edict
and the suppression of the clubs may be closely related or even two
expressions of the same legislation.104 Both imply the same kind of concern
for violent revolutionary activity that motivated regulations against
voluntary associations in the late Republic and early Principate.105 Problems
in Alexandria may have come to the attention of the prefect before
problems elsewhere in Egypt, so the suppression of the clubs in the capital
may have slightly preceded the edict of 34–35. Once again, a date for the
subversive activity of Isidoros in ca. 33–35 seems likely.
These points add further weight to the evidence previously discussed
which suggests that the gymnasiarchy of Isidoros should be dated to
before 38.106 The climax of the seditious activities of Isidoros in the clubs
was an outburst in the gymnasium (Flacc. 138–39). This indicates that they
101 E.g., Livy 39.8–19; Pliny Ep. 10.96; P. Col. Apokrimata (P. Col. 123; SB 6.9526); Dig.
48.1.1–2; and in general, Dig. 48.18.1–22. For bibliography on the Bacchic inquisition, see
H. I. Flower, ‘Rereading the Senatus Consultum de Bacchanalibus of 186 BC: Gender
Roles in the Roman Middle Republic’, in V. B. Gorman and E. W. Robinson (edd.),
Oikistes: Studies in Constitutions, Colonies, and Military Power in the Ancient World.
Offered in Honor of A. J. Graham (Leiden, 2002) 79–98; cf. R. Bauman, ‘The Suppression
of the Bacchanals: Five Questions’, Historia (Wiesbaden) 39 (1990) 334–48.
102 Contra Gruen, Diaspora, 60–61. See correctly, e.g., Van der Horst, Philo’s Flaccus, 96;
Smallwood, Jews, 236 (esp. note 64); Smallwood, Legatio ad Gaium, 14–15; Hennig, ‘Zu
der alexandrinischen Märtyrerakte’, 432.
103 Chrest. Wilck. 13; Philo Flacc. 4–5, 86–94.
104 Similarly, Hennig, ‘Zu der alexandrinischen Märtyrerakte’, 432.
105 P. A. Brunt, ‘Did Imperial Rome Disarm Her Subjects?’ Phoenix 29 (1975) 260–70; see
further the discussion of voluntary associations below.
106 Above on Lampo as gymnasiarch. The purported gymnasiarchy of Isidoros in 38 is
also rejected by Gambetti, Alexandrian Riots, 91–103, although she still asserts that he
was a ringleader in the mockery of Agrippa in the gymnasium and the outburst in the
theater in 38.
76 allen kerkeslager
Rome in the spring of 38.115 Since travel by sea was rare before March and
still dangerous until May, this would probably place Isidoros in Rome in
May of 38.116 Modern claims that Isidoros was a ringleader of the violence
in the summer of 38 thus require the short period between May and
September to accommodate an assumed journey of Isidoros from Rome to
Alexandria; a purported reconciliation between Isidoros and Flaccus; at
least the initial phase of the violence in Alexandria; an assumed journey of
Isidoros back again to Rome; and the journey of the soldiers who went
from Rome to Alexandria to arrest Flaccus. Given the time required for the
journeys alone, this is tenuous in the extreme. It is much easier to believe
that Isidoros was in Rome for all of 38.
The general cessation of sailing from November to March also illumi-
nates the earlier activity of Isidoros.117 If Isidoros was indeed involved in
the trial of Macro in the spring of 38, the closure of the seas during the
previous winter of 37–38 would have encouraged him to spend this time in
Rome.118 This places Isidoros in Rome by the end of the sailing season in
November of 37. Philo’s attribution of the suppression of the clubs to the
reign of Tiberius requires dating this suppression before the accession of
Gaius in March of 37, which roughly coincided with the opening of the
sailing season in 37 (Flacc. 8). Because the suppression of the clubs resulted
in the immediate departure of Isidoros from Alexandria, it is unlikely that it
occurred while the seas were closed in the winter of 36–37. Thus the
suppression of the clubs and the departure of Isidoros from Alexandria
probably would have to be pushed back before the close of the sailing
season in November of 36.119 From this point the other factors that have
115 Musurillo, Acts, no. 4B (CPJ 2.156b) 1.14–16; cf. Cassius Dio 59.8.1–6; 59.10.6;
Suetonius Gaius 23, 26; Philo Flacc. 10–16; Legat. 23-65; Acta Fratrum Arvalium for May 24
of 38; see AFA 44.c.32–36 (ed. G. Henzen; AFA 9.c.32–36, ed. A. Pasoli); cf. E. M. Small-
wood, Documents Illustrating the Principates of Gaius, Claudius and Nero (Cambridge,
1967) 11. On the role of Isidoros, see below and Tcherikover, CPJ 2, p. 77. The precise date
of the death of Macro is impossible to determine. Philo places Macro’s death after that
of Tiberius Gemellus (Gaius’s nephew) and before that of Marcus Silenus (Gaius’s father-
in-law). Both of the latter were replaced in the Arval college on May 24 of 38, which
probably indicates they had died before that date. Suetonius and Cassius Dio describe
Macro’s death after that of the other two. But placing the date of the death of Macro
much later than late May, when the period of safest sailing began, would raise questions
about why Macro had not left Rome to take up his post. A date in late winter or early
spring may be more likely (Cassius Dio even suggests 37). See Barrett, Caligula, 73–78;
Schwartz, ‘Préfets d’Égypte sous Tibère et Caligula’, 189–92; Smallwood, Legatio ad
Gaium, 177, 185–86.
116 Vegetius Res. Mil. 4.39; cf. Apuleius Met. 11.5, 17.
117 See preceding note.
118 See above.
119 Vegetius Res. Mil. 4.39.
78 allen kerkeslager
already been discussed above would suggest moving the date for the
suppression of the clubs and the departure of Isidoros from Alexandria
back to one of the sailing seasons in ca. 33–35.
One point that now appears certain is that the seditious activities of
Isidoros and his consequent departure from Alexandria date to well before
38. They had nothing to do with the violence in 38.
(2) Second, the crimes of Isidoros were far too serious for him to have
risked any further trouble in Alexandria after his departure. Philo implies
that the seditious activities of Isidoros were motivated primarily by a per-
sonal animosity toward Flaccus (Flacc. 138–39). But this must be doubted.
Suspicion is immediately aroused by how well this image contributes to
Philo’s emphasis on the ironic reversal of their individual roles as accuser
and accused (Flacc. 125–28, 146–47; cf. 19). Furthermore, attributing the
seditious activities of Isidoros to mere personal animosity ignores the
nature of the response of Flaccus, which involved operating in his official
role as chief agent of Roman rule in Egypt. In addition, the popularity of
Isidoros in the Acts of the Alexandrians places Isidoros in a broader social
context of characters, authors, and readers who were often frustrated with
various elements of Roman rule.120 In light of these considerations, Philo’s
statements about the efforts of Flaccus to take legal action against Isidoros
and his supporters demand that more careful attention be devoted to those
features of the activities of Isidoros that may have been regarded in some
way as anti-Roman.
Alexandrian clubs had fundamentally benign practical and social
functions that were neither anti-Semitic nor anti-Roman.121 But the strict
regulations that Flaccus imposed on the Alexandrian clubs indicate that
Flaccus perceived at least some of them as a potential threat to Roman
control. Such suspicions were grounded firmly in Roman legal precedents
created to regulate disruptive Roman political associations and gatherings
of foreigners whose loyalty to Rome might be suspect.122 These precedents
120 Isidoros is the main character in Musurillo, Acts, no. 4A-C (CPJ 2.156a-d), which is
consequently usually called the Acts of Isidoros. But he also appears in P. Oxy. 8.1089
(Musurillo, Acts, no. 2; CPJ 2.154); P. Giss. Lit. 4.7 (P. Giss. Univ. 5.46 + P. Yale 2.107 [inv.
1385]; Musurillo, Acts, no. 3; CPJ 2.155), col. 3.33–34; Musurillo Acts, no. 11 (CPJ 2.159);
possibly P. Oxy. 42.3021. On the larger social context of these Acts, see Rowlandson and
Harker, ‘Roman Alexandria from the Perspective of the Papyri’, 79–111, esp. 94–102;
exhaustively, Harker, Loyalty and Dissidence.
121 J. S. Kloppenborg, ‘Collegia and Thiasoi: Issues in Function, Taxonomy, and Member-
ship’, in J. S. Kloppenborg and S. G. Wilson (edd.), Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-
Roman World (New York, 1996) 16–30; W. M. Brashear, Vereine im griechisch-römischen
Ägypten, Xenia 34 (Konstanz, 1993) 19–32, and bibliography.
122 E.g., Livy 39.14–19; ILS 4966, 7212; Philo Legat. 311-13, 316; Suetonius Iul. 42.3;
Josephus AJ 14.213-16; Pliny Ep. 10.34, 93, 96-97; Cassius Dio 60.6.6-7; Dig. 47.22.1-4;
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 79
guaranteed that the actions of Isidoros would have opened him to some
kind of charge associated with subverting the Roman order (e.g., maiestas,
vis publica, or perduellio).123 Philo implies that Isidoros was accused of some
unidentified charge of this nature when he explicitly labels Isidoros ‘an
enemy of well-regulated order’ (eÈnÒmƒ katastãsei pol°miow; Flacc. 143).
The potential punishments that Philo conjures against Isidoros (disfran-
chisement, exile, and execution) are also typical responses to crimes against
the Roman state (Flacc. 144–45).124 Flaccus’ own edict against bearing arms
threatened violators with execution.125 Thus while Philo’s portrait of the
Alexandrian crowds denouncing one of their own heroes is dubious, it is
possible that the city tried to distance itself from Isidoros out of fear of a
broader reprisal (Flacc. 141, 144). Such a fear would have been justified
because of the Roman practice of extending punitive justice against political
criminals to potentially innocent members of the group that they repre-
sented.126 These and the other details of Philo’s description of the seditious
activity of Isidoros indicate that Isidoros was guilty of capital crimes.127
The threat of capital charges would suggest that Isidoros preserved his
life only by his departure from Alexandria. As indicated above, this must
have occurred in 33–35. A subsequent offense would have guaranteed
massive financial penalties and probably assured his execution.128 When
these considerations are taken into account, it strains credibility to assert
that Isidoros would have risked further incendiary activities in 38.
48.4.1, 5. See Andrew Lintott, Violence in Republican Rome, 2nd edition (New York, 1999)
67–88, 107–24; Wendy Cotter, ‘The Collegia and Roman Law: State Restrictions on
Voluntary Associations, 64 b.c.e.–200 c.e.’, in John S. Kloppenborg and Stephen G.
Wilson (edd.), Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World (New York, 1996) 74–
89; Max Radin, The Legislation of the Greeks and Romans on Corporations (Ph.D.
Dissertation; New York: Columbia University, 1910) 68–137.
123 On specific charges, such as treason and sedition, see O. F. Robinson, The Criminal
Law of Ancient Rome (Baltimore, 1995) 74–86; Taubenschlag, Law, 473–74, 554–58. E.g.,
see Dig. 48.4.1 (maiestas); 48.6.1–5, 9–11 (vis publica); 48.4.11 (perduellio, which was
usually subsumed under maiestas).
124 E.g., Tacitus Ann. 3.50; 6.18; Dig. 48.1.1–2; 48.4.1.9, 11; specifically in Egypt, Gnomon
36–37 (BGU 5.1210.101–108; dupl. P. Oxy. 42.3014.5–14); also death in cases of bearing
arms for sedition in Chrest. Wilck. 13. Cf. Taubenschlag, Law, 473–74.
125 Chrest. Wilck. 13.
126 E.g., Philo Spec. Leg. 3.158–63 (cf. 2.92–95); Josephus BJ 2.75, 253; AJ 18.65–84; P.
Thmouis 1.99; P. Ant. 2.87; cf. similarly representative justice against defeated soldiers;
Tacitus Ann. 3.21; slaves who murdered masters, Tacitus Ann. 14.42–45. Cf. Acts 19:40.
127 For the definition of a capital crime, see Justinian Inst. 4.18.1–2; Dig. 48.1.1–2. Cf.
comparison between exile and punishments for capital crimes in Gnomon 36 (B G U
5.1210.101–105; dupl. P. Oxy. 42.3014.5–10).
128 For confiscation for violating an explicit order of a prefect (in the case of Isidoros, one
suppressing clubs), see Gnomon 37 (BGU 5.1210.106–108). On resistance to imposed
penalties and on repeat offenses, Dig. 48.19.4, 28.
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129 Cf. above and the punishments that Philo himself describes in Flacc. 144-45.
130 Cf. Philo Flacc. 145 with Polybius 6.14.7–8; Cassius Dio 38.17.4. For the general
situation of an elite exile, see Cassius Dio 38.17.4–30.1. The status of voluntary exile is
applied to Isidoros by Gambetti, Alexandrian Riots, 94–101; Smallwood, Jews, 236,
Pelletier, In Flaccum, 133. Smallwood seems to mean the formal legal status negotiated
during a trial; see below. Gambetti grasps some of the problems this poses for his return
to Alexandria but still asserts his role in the events in 38.
131 E.g., Dig. 48.19.1, 8–10, 16; Paulus Sent. 5.23.14, 19; P. Oxy. 9.1186; Philo Flacc. 78–80.
Such distinctions were not always maintained in practice; Richard A. Bauman, Crime
and Punishment in Ancient Rome (New York, 1996) 13–20, 124–40.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 81
132 Gnomon 64, 66 (BGU 5.1210.162–63, 165–66). If treated as a Roman citizen, the fine
was a number of talents unfortunately lost in a lacuna; Gnomon 68 (BGU 5.1210.172–73).
Cf. P. Oxy. 10.1271 (Sel. Pap. 2.304). On greater stringency for lack of cooperation, see Dig.
48.19.4.
133 Gnomon 37 (BGU 5.1210.101–105; dupl. P. Oxy. 42.3014.5–10); cf. Cassius Dio 38.17.4–
7. Similar practices are found in the Athenian laws on which Alexandrian laws were
based; Aristotle Ath. 47.2; cf. IG 2(2).109 frag. 1.15–21. Cf. Taubenschlag, Law, 555. For
the ongoing similarity between Alexandrian and Athenian law, see P. Oxy. 18.2177
(Musurillo, Acts, no. 10).
134 Gnomon 37 (BGU 5.1210.101–105; dupl. P. Oxy. 42.3014.5–10). Concern for heirs
(combined with fear and humiliation) often motivated accused Romans to preempt the
confiscation of their property (not always effectively) by committing suicide; Tacitus
Ann. 6.29; cf. 3.15–18; 4.19–21; 6.38–40; Dig. 48.21.1–3. Potential children of our Isidoros
are unknown. If the Tiberius Claudius Isidoros senior in SEG 50.1563 is our Isidoros, then
the son of the same name honored in this inscription would be the son of our Isidoros;
Lukaszewicz, ‘Tiberius Claudius Isidorus’, 126–29; Lukaszewicz, ‘Some Remarks’, 59–65.
But against this see Bingen, ‘Nouvel Épistratège’, 119–20. Nevertheless, even if Bingen
is correct, the inscription’s Tiberius Claudius Isidorus senior still could be the son of our
Isidoros (rather than our Isidoros himself). This may fit the chronology better than the
suggestion of Lukaszewicz. But certitude is impossible.
135 Bauman, Crime and Punishment, 13–20, 124–40. Especially illuminating are Livy
25.3.8–4.9; Cassius Dio 38.17.4–7. Exile was also a preemptive alternative to blood
revenge for murder and often preceded a trial in Greek law; e.g., Aeschylus Ag. 1410–30;
Euripides El. 1238–76; Aristotle Ath. 57.3.
136 On such time limits and delays, see Dig. 48.19.4; 48.22.7.17; cf. Livy 3.13.4–10; 5.32.8–
9; 25.3.8–4.9; 26.3.8–12; 43.2.7–11. Similarly, Athenian law allowed suspension in the
midst of homicide trial so that the defendant could preempt execution by going into
exile; Antiphon 5.13; Demosthenes 23.69.
137 In Roman law, Livy 2.35.5–7; 5.32.8–9; 25.3.8–4.9; Cassius Dio 38.17.4–7; Dig. 48.17.1–
5; in Athenian law (on which Alexandrian law was based), see the trial outside of
Athens in the harbor in Aristotle Ath. 57.3.
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Isidoros would have been exempted from execution as long as he did not
return to Alexandria. Some variation of a settlement of this kind would
explain why Flaccus made no effort to pursue Isidoros after his departure
from Alexandria despite the apparent gravity of the crime of Isidoros, the
incontrovertible evidence against him, and the established procedures for
pursuing fugitives (Flacc. 145).138
If Isidoros did negotiate a voluntary exile, he may have offered Flaccus a
bribe or some other surreptitious financial incentive to resolve his legal
difficulties in this way. But bail and other financial deposits given as a
pledge that the accused would be present on a future trial date provided an
acceptable legal fiction for allowing an exile time to leave the city before
that date.139 The considerable financial discretion that Tiberius gave to pro-
vincial governors suggests that Flaccus would not have been reprimanded
by the emperor for negotiating the acquisition of a share of the property of
Isidoros before Isidoros’ trial date or the formal confiscation of his pro-
perty.140 Once Isidoros and Flaccus reached their initial agreement, Flaccus
and his legal staff would have assured that any remaining arrangements
for the exile of Isidoros were completed in a perfectly legal manner before
Isidoros left the city. It is tempting to suggest that the customary prelimi-
naries that would have preceded the exile of Isidoros might lie behind the
obscure ‘business’ (tÚ xr∞ma) that Flaccus seems to have arranged for
Isidoros in P. Oxy. 8.1089 (cf. above).
The legal implications of the probable exile of Isidoros may also pose
other obstacles to any assumption that Isidoros could have returned after
his exile. If this exile had been negotiated in terms of a formal sentence
reported in the prefect’s routine communication with the emperor, Flaccus
himself might not even have been able to rescind this sentence. At least in
138 E.g., on runaway slaves, see P. Cair. Zen. 1.59015v; UPZ 1.121; P. Lond. 7.2052; BGU
10.1993 (SB 8.9779); PSI 6.570; BGU 8.1774; P. Oxy. 12.1422; P. Harr. 62; P. Oxy. 51.3616;
51.3617; P. Heid. 212; P. Beatty Panop. 1.149–2; P. Oxy. 14.1643; et al.; and the discussion in
S. R. Llewelyn, ‘The Government’s Pursuit of Runaway Slaves’, New Documents Illustrat-
ing Early Christianity 8, 1984–85 (Grand Rapids, 1998) 9–46. For suppressing bandits and
criminals (often referring to those escaping taxes or liturgies), see BGU 1.325 (Chr. Wilck.
472); BGU 2.372 (Chr. Wilck. 19); P. Ant. 2.87. See B. C. McGing, ‘Bandits, Real and
Imagined, in Greco-Roman Egypt’, BASP 35 (1998) 159–83; R. Alston, Soldier and Society
in Roman Egypt: A Social History (New York, 1995), 81–86. The kind of rewards promised
in P.Oxy. 12.1408 would have provided ample motivation for aiding the capture of
Isidoros.
139 Livy 3.13.4–10; 25.4.8–9; Dig. 48.1.4; 48.3.1–6; Gaius Inst. 4.183–87; for securities given
by others, see P. Hib. 1.92. Cf. Dig. 48.19.4; 48.22.7.17; note also the temporary suspension
of a homicide trial in Athenian law; Antiphon 5.13; Demosthenes 23.69.
140 Josephus AJ 18.170-78; cf. Tacitus Ann. 1.80; Suetonius Tib. 41. Thus a bribe in this
case would have been almost routine, since it was far from the extortion more likely to
irk an emperor.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 83
later centuries, only the emperor had the right to rescind a sentence of
exile. 141 Isidoros later may have been able to secure the patronage of
Gaius. 142 But this alone would not have required any reversal of the
decision of Flaccus because a sentence of exile rather than execution already
implied imperial benevolence (humanitas).143 Gaius also was unlikely to
endanger the security of his rule by setting a precedent of rescinding the
penalty of a notorious criminal.144 As will be suggested below, Gaius found
Isidoros much more useful in Rome.
Previous scholarship attributing Isidoros with a role in the violence in 38
has too easily passed over the legal implications of the departure of
Isidoros from Alexandria. Isidoros was probably never permitted to return
to Alexandria after he had left the city in 33–35.
(4) Fourth, Isidoros probably would have been killed if he had returned
to Alexandria. Since voluntary exile was in effect a suspended death sen-
tence, it presumed that if the exile returned to his or her city he or she could
be killed with impunity by anyone who so desired.145 The same threat
applied to anyone who harbored the returned exile.146 In the case of
Isidoros, the gravity of these threats would have been prohibitive because
the Roman authorities would have viewed his return as an effort to stir up
more trouble. For his personal enemies, who may have included relatives
of individuals from the lower classes executed for complicity in his earlier
crimes (above), his return would have offered a chance for revenge. For
robbers and other opportunists, it would have been an occasion for easy
money.147 Evidence from other cities suggests that in some cases even the
dangers posed to exiles who had been granted legal amnesty were serious
enough to require the authorities to impose threats on individuals who
imperiled the security of these pardoned exiles.148 Because similar legal and
social conventions were probably practiced in Alexandria, Isidoros had
reason to fear returning to the city whether or not the strictures of his exile
were ever rescinded.
(5) Fifth, Isidoros probably lacked the financial resources to provoke the
trouble with which he is usually credited in 38. The previous description of
the details of his exile indicate that the bulk of his property had been
confiscated when he was exiled in 33–35. Thus Isidoros may have been
unable to afford the long journeys he is often credited with making in 38
from Rome to Alexandria and back again to Rome. He also could not
afford the hefty bribe needed for any purported reconciliation with Flaccus.
He also lacked funds sufficient to persuade mob leaders to risk arrest by
harassing Judeans.
(6) Sixth, the presence of Isidoros in Rome during the events in 38 is
consistent with his status as an exile. Isidoros appears in conspicuous legal
disputes in Rome from early 37 to early 41. These include an obscure hear-
ing before Gaius that probably dates to early 37;149 the intrigues against
Macro in the spring of 38;150 the trial of Flaccus in the winter of 38–39;151 the
hearings of the rival embassies before Gaius in 39 (or 40);152 and a fateful
legal dispute with Agrippa I in 41.153 The previous discussion of the earlier
legal difficulties of Isidoros in Alexandria demands that some explanation
148 E.g., Syll.(3) 306[2], esp. 57–66. Cf. the warning to Cicero in Cassius Dio 38.29.1–4.
149 P. Giss. Lit. 4.7 (P. Giss. Univ. 5.46 + P. Yale 2.107 [inv. 1385]; Musurillo, Acts, no. 3),
col. 3.33–34. The text is too fragmentary to be certain that this is our Isidoros. The version
in CPJ 2.155 and Tcherikover’s accompanying effort to identify the text with events in 38
are marred by dealing with only part of the text, none of which mentions Judeans; CPJ 2,
pp. 64–66. The best edition is now Kuhlmann’s (P. Giss. Lit. 4.7). For the date of the
setting in 37 rather than 38, see esp. Harker, Loyalty and Dissidence, 44–47; also
Gambetti, Alexandrian Riots, 51–86; Kuhlmann, Giessener Literarischen Papyri, 119, 129;
Stephens, Yale Papyri, 85–97; Herbert Musurillo and George M. Parássoglou, ‘A New
Fragment of the Acta Alexandrinorum’, ZPE 15 (1974) 1–7 and Plate Ia; Musurillo, Acts,
8–17, 105–112 (no. 3). The text seems to picture the period in which Tiberius was
succeeded by Gaius, which would point to a date early in 37. Harker’s discussion accounts
for possible anachronisms from later conflicts projected back into 37 by the author.
150 Musurillo, Acts, no. 4B (CPJ 2.156b) 1.14–16. On the date and question of the involve-
ment of Isidoros, see note above.
151 Philo Flacc. 125–28, 135, 146–47.
152 Philo Legat. 354–56. On the date in 39 rather than 40, see note above.
153 Musurillo, Acts, no. 4A–C (CPJ 2.156a–d). Musurillo, Acts, 118–24, like some others,
prefers a date in 53 before Agrippa II. But for the date in 41, see Harker, Loyalty and
Dissidence, 27–28 (who tries to harmonize the conflicting evidence by proposing a pos-
sible trial date in 53 fictionally projected back to 41 by the author); Schwartz, Agrippa,
96–98; Mélèze-Modrzejewski, ‘D¤kh toË Is¤dvrou’, 249–50; Tcherikover, CPJ 2, pp. 68–69.
One of the characters in this text (Balbillos) also appears BKT 9.64 (P. Berol. inv.
21161v), which may be another text in the same genre.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 85
be offered for the questions of how Isidoros could later achieve such a
powerful role and why he only appears exercising this role in Rome.
One possible explanation for the presence of Isidoros in Rome is that he
had been exiled to an island and then was granted a partial amnesty with
other political exiles upon the accession of Gaius.154 In an exceptional
demonstration of benevolence (humanitas), Gaius could have permitted
Isidoros to go to Rome while still preserving order in Alexandria by
reaffirming the strictures against his return. This alternative does not seem
likely, however. One weakness in this proposal is that the role of Isidoros in
the death of Macro in the spring of 38 indicates that Isidoros already must
have wormed his way into circles of elite Romans at least by the preceding
winter of 37–38. Isidoros’ entry into these circles is most likely to have
been a slow process requiring a long period of social networking after his
arrival in Rome.
Another possibility is that Isidoros was in Rome as a condition of his
exile.155 One concern that often seems implied in the relocation of an exile
was that he or she remain in an allied region of unquestioned loyalty.156
This assured that such criminals could be easily observed and kept out of
an environment where they could win a new following of insurgents. Thus
in the Republic and early Principate, Rome and other cities in Italy were
often frequented by elite fugitives, notorious provincial criminals, and exiles
from allied states.157 One possible objection to explaining the presence of
Isidoros in Rome in this way is that with the Roman consolidation of allied
states within a unified empire subject to Rome, the practice of allowing
provincial cities to banish their own exiles to Rome seems to have
gradually fallen into disfavor.158 But if the practice was still allowed in the
30s, the negotiations between Flaccus and Isidoros for conditions of exile
might have resulted in a requirement that Isidoros go to Rome.
Perhaps the most appealing possibility is that Isidoros may have secured
permission from Flaccus to go to Rome when Isidoros negotiated the
conditions of his exile. The conditions and forms of exile retained a fluid
154 Dig. 48.19.2, 4; especially common in the case of elite criminals, such as Flaccus him-
self; Philo Flacc. 151–91. Gambetti, Alexandrian Riots, 97, proposes a similar exoneration
from criminal charges as a result of a personal reward from Gaius for his earlier service
against the emperor’s enemies.
155 On the possibility of conditions, see Dig. 48.19.4. See Dig. 48.22.5, 7, which suggests a
long tradition of variety in the sentence.
156 E.g., Polybius 6.14.7–8; Livy 43.2.7–12; perhaps implicitly Tacitus Ann. 4.43.
157 Sending exiles from Rome to allied cities in Polybius 6.14.7–8 probably assumes that
the reverse also occurred. Similar though not strictly dealing with exiles is Tacitus Ann.
2.63. Restriction of a provincial under close observation in Rome is vividly illustrated in
SEG 9.8.40–55, although the issue here is not exile.
158 Dig. 48.22.7.15–16.
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159 See the variety of options in Dig. 48.22.5, 7. The rules excluding a relegated person
from Rome were more strict than for persons who simply went into exile; Dig. 48.22.14–15,
18.
160 E.g., Kayser, ‘Ambassades Alexandrines à Rome’, 449–50, 458–63; Delia, Alexandrian
Citizenship, 164–65; Smallwood, Legatio ad Gaium, 248–49, who at least tries to accom-
modate this to the problems ancient travel poses for her chronology.
161 Delia, Alexandrian Citizenship, 164, cites P. Oxy. 18.2177 (Musurillo, Acts, no. 10) as
evidence that Alexandrian citizenship was not required of ambassadors. But even if this
is implied in this text (which is not clear), the emperor’s statements indicate that he
may have objected to such practices. Ambassadors could come from a variety of ranks, but
higher ranks were preferred; Dig. 50.7.5. On status reduction (capitis deminutio), see Dig.
48.1.1–2; cf. 48.4.1; 48.13.3; 48.22.14–15; Gaius Inst. 1.159–63; also Athenian laws on
which Alexandrian laws were based, Aristotle Ath. 16.10; cf. implicitly 47.2. The
reduced legal status of Isidoros cannot be determined, since reduction had a variety of
degrees (maxima, minor [media], minima; Gaius Inst. 1.159–63). Isidoros may have been
reduced to a peregrinus dediticius; see Gaius Inst. 1.13–15. Restoration of his Alexandrian
citizenship would require a direct reversal of the earlier decision of Flaccus, which
seems an unlikely encroachment on the prefect’s jurisdiction; cf. Pliny Ep. 10.5–7. His
elite status also may have opened the door to Roman citizenship. But his acquisition of
this honor cannot be determined, since it is not certain that the ‘Tiberius Claudius
Isidoros’ senior in SEG 50.1563 is our Isidoros; against Lukaszewicz, ‘Tiberius Claudius
Isidorus’, 125–29; Lukaszewicz, ‘Some Remarks’, 59–65; see Bingen, ‘Nouvel Épistratège’,
119–20. However, even if Bingen’s rejection of Lukaszewicz’s identification is correct, it
would still be possible to identify the inscription’s ‘Tiberius Claudius Isidoros’ senior as
the son of our Isidoros, thus indicating that Roman citizenship was held by his son. If
‘Tiberius Claudius Isidoros’ senior is our Isidoros, his Roman citizenship was probably
acquired well before 41, just as the Claudii who appear in P. Lond. 6.1912 (contra
Lukaszewicz); see Kayser, ‘Ambassades Alexandrines à Rome’, 451–53.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 87
162 On possible elections, see Delia, Alexandrian Citizenship, 164; cf. 189–96. Selection of
Isidoros would have implied willingness to grant him a financial stipend to support his
journey; see on Lampo above.
163 Kayser, ‘Ambassades Alexandrines à Rome’, 451–53. E.g., P. Oxy. 42.3021; P. Lond.
6.1912 (CPJ 2.153), on which Kayser notes that even the Claudii probably received
Roman citizenship before their journey; P. Oxy. 10.1242 (Musurillo, Acts no. 8; Dionysios).
For the possible Roman citizenship of Isidoros, see above note.
164 See P. Oxy. 25.2435.30–60, where ‘Timoxenos the rhetor’ (=Ætvr) appears alongside of
an Alexandrian embassy before Augustus in 13 c.e.; similarly, P. Oxy. 10.1242 (Musurillo,
Acts, no. 8), where both the Greek and Judean embassies each hire an advocate
(sunÆgorow). In suits against provincial administrators for extortion that sought repara-
tion rather than capital charges, the senate itself provided an advocate (sunÆgorow);
SEG 9.8 (Sherk, RDGE 31), lines 101–104.
165 Even in a severely reduced legal status, Isidoros still would have been qualified to
bring charges for enough crimes to keep himself busy, e.g., maiestas; Dig. 48.4.7. This
category was broad enough that all of the appearances of Isidoros before an emperor
might have fallen in this category (including the one in Legat. 355–56). For other
regulations on bringing accusations, see Dig. 48.2.1–22.
166 E.g., Tacitus Ann. 1.72–74; 2.34; 3.38, 49; 4.20; 4.30–38; Epictetus Disc. 4.13.5.
167 Against Schwartz, Agrippa, 96–99, see note below.
168 Tacitus Ann. 4.20; cf. 2.32. Policies for rewarding informers did, however, vary
widely depending on the crime and other factors; e.g., 12.5% under the legate of
Domitian in Pisidian Antioch, M. McCrum and A. G. Woodhead, Select Documents of the
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Because Isidoros had already proven his abilities in the roles of prosecutor
and informer in the imperial court by the time of the arrival of the
Alexandrian embassy that opposed Philo, he could have acquired additional
financial rewards as the ideal advocate for the Alexandrian cause.
In Legat. 350, Philo himself sets the stage for such an interpretation by
suggesting that he had anticipated that qualified advocates would be
alongside each embassy (ofl sunagoreÊsontew). Philo also offers a close
parallel for attributing this role to Isidoros when he describes the financial
rewards that the Alexandrian ambassadors offered the slave Helicon,
another Alexandrian loyalist of low legal status in the coterie of Gaius
(Legat. 172; cf. 166–78, 203–206). The space Philo devoted to Helicon would
make it unlikely that Philo would fail to mention the rhetorician hired by
the Alexandrians, whose unique role gave him a comparably high degree
of visibility.
Nevertheless, Philo does not give Isidoros the honor of the title ‘advo-
cate’ (sunÆgorow). Instead, in Legat. 355–56, Philo’s deprecating identification
of Isidoros as ‘the bitter slanderer’ (ı pikrÚw sukofãnthw) who has ‘slan-
dered’ (sukofant°v) Judeans explicitly relegates him to the despised role of
the informer. The definite article Philo uses in the nominal phrase (ı pikrÚw
sukofãnthw) even suggests that Isidoros was well known as an informer to
the mixed audience of the In Flaccum. These points unfortunately have
been obscured because of assumptions that the negative connotations of
Philo’s terminology in Legat. 355–56 derive from the purported ‘anti-
Semitic’ activity of Isidoros in Alexandria.169 Such assumptions ignore the
Roman legal context of Legat. 355–56 itself. The negative implications of
Philo’s terms (sukofãnthw, sukofant°v) are more than adequately ex-
plained by their usage in Greek descriptions of the legal havoc wreaked by
informers (Latin delatores).170 Philo’s terminology can be accounted for if he
used it not to identify Isidoros as an anti-Semite, but rather to distinguish
the legal function of Isidoros from the elite Alexandrian ambassadors
whom he represented.
Principates of the Flavian Emperors: Including the year of Revolution A.D. 68–96 (Cam-
bridge, 1966) no. 464; and 50% in Athens under Hadrian, IG 3.38 (SEG 15.108; Oliver,
Greek Constitutions, no. 92), lines 33–55.
169 E.g., Kraus, Filone Alessandrino, 127–28, suggests that Philo mentions Isidoros in
Legat. 355–56 because he was ‘il principale fomentatore dell’antisemitismo alessan-
drino.’ Smallwood, Legatio ad Gaium, 248–49, 319–20, simply ignores the terms.
170 E.g., most clearly in Alexandria in OGIS 669 (IGRR 1.1263; SB 5.8444), lines 34–45; in
Rome, Cassius Dio 52.37.1–6; 58.1.1–3; 58.25.2; 60.4.2; 60.13.2–3; 61.1.3–4; 68.1.2–3; cf. the
accusations against Cicero in Cassius Dio 46.1.1–10.4 (esp. 46.4.1; 46.8.3; 46.10.4). See LSJ
s.v. sukofãnthw. The term already had acquired its negative connotations in Athens by
the end of the fifth century b.c.e.; D. M. MacDowell, The Law in Classical Athens
(Ithaca, 1978) 62–66.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 89
appears in the text at all, it is not until later at P. Giss. Lit. 4.7, col. 3.33–34 (in P. Giss.
Univ. 5.46; Acts, no. 3, updated line nos. 88–89). Even at this point he may be merely a
figure in a quoted edict from Gaius rather than a participant in the events.
175 Musurillo, Acts, nos. 4A–C (CPJ 2.156a–d). The difficulties found in this distinction
by Tcherikover, CPJ 2, pp. 72–73, are easily resolved if one simply accepts the distinction
rather than insisting that Isidoros was one of the ambassadors.
176 Musurillo, Acts, no. 4B (CPJ 2.156b), line 36. The comments of Tcherikover once again
pose problems that could have been resolved by eliminating his insistence that Isidoros
was an ambassador and accepting the implications of his own statements about the role
of Isidoros as delator; CPJ 2, p. 77.
177 Musurillo, Acts, no. 4A (CPJ 2.156d), col. 3.3–7 (kathgor°v). This might explain the
role of Isidoros in P. Giss. Lit. 4.7 (P. Giss. Univ. 5.46 + P. Yale 2.107 [inv. 1385]; Musurillo,
Acts, no. 3), col. 3.33–34, but the latter papyrus is too fragmentary to reach any firm
conclusion. Isidoros simply may have been a hired representative of the Alexandrian
ambassadors as he was in Legat. 354–56. In the trial of Flaccus, it is impossible to know
whether Gaius or someone else had hired Isidoros. Typically it is assumed that the
status and role of Lampo and Isidoros in the accusations against Flaccus were equivalent.
But this is not demanded by the evidence. Lampo clearly had reasons for bringing
charges against Flaccus (Philo Flacc. 125–35, 146–47). Thus it is possible that Lampo is
the one who hired Isidoros in the trial of Flaccus. Of course, Lampo may have decided to
work together with Isidoros for the informer’s share of the confiscated property. On the
other hand, the verb kathgor°v used in Musurillo, Acts, no. 4A (CPJ 2.156d), col. 3.3–7,
might suggest a more official role given to Isidoros by Gaius, since the cognate noun
(katÆgorow) could designate an official state prosecutor in distinction from an informer
(sukofãnthw); e.g., OGIS 669 (IGRR 1.1263; SB 5.8444), discussed in N. Lewis, ‘On Legal
Proceedings Under the Idios Logos: KatÆgoroi and Sukofãntai’, JJP 9–10 (1956) 117–25. But
even OGIS 669 indicates that a prosecutor could act on his own behalf, so the distinction
often was moot in actual practice.
178 His execution narrative is especially likely if P. J. Parsons (editio princeps of P. Oxy.
42.3021) is correct in suggesting that line 2 might include the name of Agrippa (although
only the final two letters are clearly readable). But lines 5–6 also may preserve the
name of Tiberius Claudius [Balbillu]s, who is another character from the Acts of Isidoros.
179 Mélèze-Modrzejewski, ‘D¤kh toË Is¤dvrou’, 252–53, identifies this text’s 'Is¤dvrow
Dionus¤o(u) (‘Isidoros [son of] Dionysios’) with our Isidoros. He also concludes that we
now have evidence of his father’s name. However, Harker, Loyalty and Dissidence, 248,
citing the absence of any evidence for this proposed relationship elsewhere, proposes the
nominative Dionus¤o(w) and contends that two separate individuals were intended.
the violence in alexandria in 38 c.e. 91
Similarly, Gambetti, Alexandrian Riots, 104–106, who points to the nominative without
final sigma in this name in P. Lond. 6.1912 (CPJ 2.153), line 17 and a similar problem in
BGU 4.1140. The appearance of Isidoros and an unidentified Dionysios together may
imply common cause but does not, however, require their conclusion that both were
ambassadors. Even less clear is P. Giss. Lit. 4.7 (P. Giss. Univ. 5.46 + P. Yale 2.107 [inv.
1385]), col. 3.33–34, as read by Musurillo and Parássoglou, ‘New Fragment’, 4–5
(Musurillo, Acts, no. 3, updated line. nos. 88–89). In this text Isidoros may be a figure
mentioned in an edict from Gaius and at most is a speaker alongside an Alexandrian
embassy. But once again he is not clearly identified as an ambassador or recent arrival to
Rome, pace Harker, Loyalty and Dissidence, 44.
180 Harker, Loyalty and Dissidence, 248, might be correct in suggesting that the lacuna
surrounding ‘all the ambassadors’ should be filled to read ‘all the ambassadors [of the
Judeans].’ It is at least certain that Isidoros is not actually called an ambassador.
181 The penalty for libelous or vexatious claims in private suits was 10–33.3% of the
amount claimed from the other person; Gaius Inst. 4.174–81. But failed capital accusa-
tions could result in punishments appropriate to capital crimes (i.e., exile, reduction in
status, or execution); e.g., Tacitus Ann. 4.36; 6.9; 6.30; 12.42. See P. A. Brunt, ‘Did Empe-
rors Ever Suspend the Law of ‘Maiestas’?’ in V. Giuffre (ed.), Sodalites: Scritti in onore di
Antonio Guarino, Biblioteca di Labeo 8 (Napoli, 1984) 1.469–80, esp. 479–80.
182 Against Schwartz, Agrippa, 96–99. See Musurillo, Acts, nos. 4A–C (CPJ 2.156a–d).
Schwartz claims that §pãgomai in frag. b, 2.34 indicates that Isidoros was ‘brought (to
trial)’ and is thus the accused rather than the accuser. But it is not even certain §pãgomai
is passive; the middle is used for introducing witnesses or evidence; see LSJ s.v. Further-
more, other phrases besides ‘to trial’ could fill the lacuna; e.g., ‘to humiliation’ or ‘to
execution,’ the last of which would describe the outcome (rather than beginning) of the
legal dispute and would fit the context’s reference to tearing clothing (frag. b, 2.37).
Schwartz’s claim might also have to be dismissed because of the suggestion of Harker,
Loyalty and Dissidence, 232. Harker persuasively argues that §pãgomai is a corruption for
épãgomai (‘I am being led away to death’), citing this word in the close parallel just a
few lines later in frag. b, 2.46–47. Furthermore, despite the translation of tÚ toË ÉIsid≈rou
(frag. b, 1.4; reconstructed, frag. a, 2.8–9) as ‘Isidoros’ trial’ in CPJ 2, pp. 71, 76,
translating ‘the indictment brought by Isidoros’ seems more appropriate. The lawsuit
over which Claudius presides is called ‘the indictment brought against Agrippa the
King by Isidoros gymnasiarch of the city of the Alexandrians’ (ékoÊei KlaÊdiow Ka›sa[r
tÚ toË ÉIsid≈rou] gumnasiãrxou pÒlevw ÉA[lejandr°vn] katå ÉAgr¤ppou basil°v[w]; frag. 4a,
2.2–4). The later phrase tÚ toË ÉIsid≈rou is almost certainly just an abbreviation of this
longer phrase, which Schwartz marginalizes in his discussion.
183 Mélèze-Modrzejewski, ‘D¤kh toË Is¤dvrou’, 254. On calumnia, see, e.g., Dig. 48.16.1; for
maiestas, see the discussion of Lampo above and Brunt, ‘Did Emperors Ever Suspend the
92 allen kerkeslager
attempt to root out potential enemies left over from the reign of Gaius has
much more to do with the execution of Isidoros than anything that
occurred three years earlier in Alexandria.
This proposed reconstruction of the transformation of Isidoros from an
exiled political criminal to a powerful advocate and informer in the court of
the emperor is hardly without parallel. Fortuitous social connections and
unique personal skills allowed disproportionate influence in the imperial
court to be exercised by foreign slaves such as Helicon, former political
prisoners such as the Judean king Agrippa, onetime slaves such as Narcis-
sus and Pallas, and even notorious commanders of rebel armies such as
Josephus.184 The fact that the attested developments in the legal activity of
Isidoros in Rome correspond so well chronologically with the fate of Gaius
suggests that the rise and fall of Isidoros somehow hinged on the political
winds introduced by the succession of emperors.185
If the preceding proposal is correct, Isidoros was not an ambassador. His
wrangling against Judeans in imperial hearings was driven more by greed
and simple patriotism than by ‘anti-Semitism.’ His need to sink to employ-
ment as an advocate and informer confirms that he never regained his
former status or returned from exile to Alexandria.
The inevitable conclusion is that Isidoros had no role in the violence in
38. He had gone away from Alexandria into voluntary exile as a notorious
instigator of anti-Roman activities probably in 33–35 and certainly no later
than 36. He went directly to Rome and eventually established a successful
legal career there.186 Isidoros remained in Rome for the entirety of 38.
Dionysios, Lampo, and Isidoros were not involved in the violence in 38.
Flaccus was not bamboozled into a conspiracy with our trio.
Flaccus was probably not bamboozled into a conspiracy with anyone at
all.187 Philo does not mention any effort to ferret out any purported co-
conspirators of Flaccus in his description of the arrest of Flaccus (Flacc. 110–
16). Philo also never says that any purported co-conspirators appeared
use of the sword).193 Philo avoided criticizing the military probably because
he did not want to confirm accusations that the Judeans were enemies of
Rome. Philo also was quite simply less interested in the military henchmen
employed by Flaccus than in the prefect who commanded them.
(3) Third, much greater attention must be given in future research to the
possibility that throughout all of the violence in 38 Flaccus was acting in
accordance with accepted Roman policies that were presumed by the em-
peror himself. Philo desperately tried to divert attention away from these
policies because he wanted to reverse the negative results of the violence
and any legal precedent that it may have established. But the violence may
have been a perfectly ‘normal’ expression of the same brutal Roman poli-
cies that are well attested in punitive measures imposed on both individuals
and communities across the empire.194 Roman imperialism, not a culture
war between Judaism and Hellenism or a religious conflict between various
subject peoples, may provide the most illuminating theme for under-
standing the violence in 38.195
193 E.g., Flacc. 33–35, 40, 43–44, 53–54, 67, 72, 74–85, 86–94, 96; Legat. 132. See Alston,
Soldier and Society, 81–101.
194 E.g., see Slingerland, Claudian Policymaking, 65–110, 219–45; R. MacMullen, Essays in
the Ordinary: Changes in the Roman Empire (Princeton, 1990) 204–17; Alston, Soldier and
Society, 81–86; cf. R. Bagnall, ‘Official and Private Violence in Roman Egypt’, BASP 26
(1989) 201–16. For examples, see P. Thmouis 1.99; Josephus BJ 2.75, 253, 487–98; Tacitus
Ann. 14.42–45; Philo Spec. Leg. 3.158–63 (cf. 2.92–95). As is clear from the preceding
discussion, exile often indicates a capital crime because of its frequent use as a suspended
death sentence; hence see also Josephus AJ 18.81–84 (on these events, see Suet. Tib. 36;
Tacitus Ann. 2.85; Cassius Dio 57.18.5; Seneca Epist. 108.22).
195 For the Roman issues in the violence, see Kerkeslager, ‘Agrippa and the Mourning
Rites for Drusilla in Alexandria.’
The Studia Philonica Annual XVII (2005) 95–98
Fr. sp. 62
1 The Spurious Texts of Philo of Alexandria: A Study of Textual Transmission and Corrup-
tion with Indexes to the Major Collections of Greek Fragments, ALGHJ 22 (Leiden 1991).
2 ’Reverse Indexes to Philonic Texts in the Printed Florilegia and Collections of Frag-
ments,’ SPhA 5 (1993) 156–79; the ‘unidentified texts’ are at 174–79.
3 Spurious Texts, 60–61. See also the helpful survey by David T. Runia, ‘How to Search
Philo,’ SPhA 2 (1990) 106–39, and his supplements, ‘A New Philo Word Index,’ SPhA 10
(1998) 131–34, and Review of P. Borgen, K. Fuglseth, and R. Skarsten, The Philo Index: A
Complete Greek Word Index to the Writings of Philo of Alexandria, SPhA 12 (2000) 205–6.
96 james r. royse
Maximus Antonius
(PG 91) (PG 136)
Thus, the loss of the lemma(ta) in Maximus after the correct lemma on QG
4.52 (b) resulted in the inclusion of these five fragments from Gregory of
Nazianzus and Gregory Thaumaturgus among the fragments of Philo. It
would seem that an even earlier error somehow placed Fr. sp. 62, from
Gregory Thaumaturgus, among fragments of Gregory of Nazianzus. Of
course, the multiple Gregorys could be readily confused, just as the multiple
Philos were on occasion confused.6
Fr. sp. 63
Fr. sp. 64
filÒsofow cuxØ pãntvn §st‹n Íchlot°ra ka‹ xart«n ka‹ luphr«n: oÎte
går §n §ke¤noiw xaunoËtai oÎyÉ ÍpÚ toÊtvn katast°lletai ka‹ tapeinoËtai,
éllå diam°nei diå pãntvn ‡sh, tØn ofike¤an fisxÁn ka‹ dÊnamin §pideiknum°nh.
Lewy, 84.32, from Laur. plut. VII 15, f. 92v (‘ohne Lemma hinter
Philonzitat’).7
Unidentified no. 115.
Aristotle, Historia animalium 1.1, 488a1.8 Now, it would seem totally unjusti-
fied to think that errors in the transmission of the florilegia just happened
to foist upon Philo either or both of fragments no. 43 and no. 56, which
contain a word that he otherwise uses in seven of its nine or ten occur-
rences in extant Greek literature. Rather, it is overwhelmingly probable
that both no. 43 and no. 56 are also from Philo, who found this unusual
word in Aristotle and became fond of it. (I suppose that Procopius is also
indebted to Aristotle, although of course it is always possible that the word
had a wider usage that is now lost to us.)
Some further confirmation is indeed found in Philo’s conjoining monv-
tikÒw with koinvnikÒw in both fragments no. 43 and no. 56; the latter word
occurs otherwise at sixteen places in Philo’s writings (including a second
time in no. 56), but is not found at the other places where he uses
monvtikÒw. Further, the term égela›ow is found at thirteen places in Philo
other than no. 56, and it is joined with monvtikÒw at three of these: Cher. 58;
Her. 211; Praem. 89. And sÊnnomow is found at four places in Philo other than
no. 56, and it is joined with monvtikÒw at two of these: Cher. 58; Praem. 89.
This evidence seems to me to make it virtually certain that both no. 43 and
no. 56 are genuine texts of Philo, deriving from his lost works.
Finally, it remains true that no fragment that is definitely assigned to
Philo’s Quaestiones has been found to be spurious.9 The overall reliability of
such ascriptions is thus confirmed.
Schwartz suggests here that I argued for the practice of child exposure
among Alexandrian Jews on the basis of their approval and/or practice of
child sacrifice. This alleged analogy is very important to him. He stresses it
on other occasions, writing for example that ‘willy-nilly this [Philo’s posi-
tive attitude to the Biblical Aqeda] affords support, by analogy, for the
immediately preceding argument about child-exposure, for if the Bible and
Philo posit child sacrifice, and ancient Jews practiced it for a long time, then
it is easy to suppose that they regularly endangered and killed babies in
other ways as well’ (ibid.). Schwartz similarly notes: ‘Thus, Niehoff’s
treatment of Abr. 196 will again lead the reader to infer that if even the
philosopher Philo could approve of child sacrifice, other Jews could engage
in it, and approve of, infant exposure’ (p. 86). The reader of Schwartz’s
article is thus invited to think that I implied the practice of child sacrifice
among Jews in Hellenistic Alexandria, assuming that this also explains their
practice of child exposure.
1 I wish to thank Martin Goodman for his helpful comments on a draft of this response.
2 ‘Did The Jews Practice Infant Exposure And Infanticide In Antiquity?’ SPhA 16 (2004)
61–95.
100 maren r. niehoff
3 J. D. Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son. The Transformation of
Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity (New Haven 1993).
4 J. Bernays, Über das Phokylideische Gedicht. Ein Beitrag zur hellenistischen Literatur
(Breslau Jahresbericht 1856).
response to: daniel s. schwartz 101
Hebrew University
Jerusalem
The Studia Philonica Annual XVII (2005) 102
SPECIAL SECTION
INTRODUCTION
Gregory E. Sterling
1 D. Winston incorporated this story in Logos and Mystical Theology in Philo of Alexan-
dria (Cincinnati 1985) 14–15.
The Studia Philonica Annual XVII (2005) 103–117
1
A version of this paper was initially delivered to the Philo Seminar at the Annual
Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in San Antonio, TX, November 22, 2004. The
final version has benefited enormously from the critical conversations that ensued.
2
E. Harris, Prologue and Gospel: The Theology of the Fourth Evangelist, JSNTSup 107
(Sheffield, 1994) 13, 16, 38–39, 188–91, in which an actor introduces the elements of the
plot (apud Kurz).
3
E. Pagels, ‘Exegesis of Genesis 1 in the Gospels of Thomas and John,’ JBL 118 (1999) 477–
496; D. Boyarin, ‘The Gospel of the Memra: Jewish Binitarianism and the Prologue to
John,’ HTR 94 (2001) 243–284.
4 A. Jasper, The Shining Garment of the Text: Gendered Readings of John’s Prologue,
JSNTSup 165; Gender, Culture, Theory 6 (Sheffield, 1998).
5 W. S. Kurz, ‘The Johannine Word as Revealing the Father: A Christian Credal
Actualization,’ Perspectives in Religious Studies 28 (2001) 67–84.
6 N. F. Denzey, ‘Genesis Traditions in Conflict,’ VChr 55 (2001) 20–44; J. Painter,
‘Rereading Genesis in the Prologue of John,’ in D. E. Aune, T. Seland and J. H. Ulrichsen
(edd.), Neotestamentica et Philonica: Studies in Honor of Peder Borgen (Leiden/Boston,
2003)179–201. The contributions by Pagels and Boyarin, mentioned above, also contribute
to this discussion.
7 E. L. Miller, ‘The Johannine Origins of the Johannine Logos,’ JBL 112 (1993) 445–5.
8 D. M. Smith, John (Nashville, 1999)
104 harold w. attridge
man than a man into God,’ obviously illustrating the difference between
Philo and John. It would be tedious to cite other treatments; Smith is fairly
typical of the way in which Philo appears in most discussions of the Fourth
Gospel, as an illustration of the presence of some Johannine themes in first-
century Jewish literature.
This essay will leave aside the contemporary conversations about the
genre of the Prologue, although the thesis that it is ‘midrashic’ in some
sense is certainly viable. It will focus on the comparable material in Philo,
but not in the atomistic fashion common in the commentaries. It will argue
that the ‘Logos theologies’ of Philo and John are related in a profound
way, one that is not usually recognized, even by those who defend some
connection between Philo and John. In order to see that connection, it is
necessary to take a comprehensive view of the use of the Logos theme in
the Philonic corpus, or at least a sub-set of the corpus, the Allegorical Com-
mentaries on the Pentateuch, and attend to the rhetoric or the pedagogical
strategy of that corpus. The Fourth Gospel offers a version of the same
strategy, a ‘riff,’ to use a jazz metaphor, on that fundamental Philonic
strategy or rhetoric.
Let me begin with some non-controversial basics from De opificio mundi,
the first tractate in the Exposition of the Law. The contours of Philo’s
treatment of the Logos are well known.9 Insofar as it has a structural role in
Philo’s metaphysics, the Logos does a good deal of heavy lifting. It is at
once the sum and substance of the noetic realm (Opif. 24–25, 29), the
incorporeal world of ideas (Opif. 36), now firmly planted in the mind of
God. It thus solves the problem of the relationship between first principles
that confronted monotheistic exegetes of Plato. The Demiurge and the
Forms are now harmonized since the Forms are simply ideas in the mind
of God.
But the Logos does even more. It is also the expression of the ideal,
noetic world in the phenomenal realm. In good Stoic fashion, and with a
gesture toward the Stoic language of spermatikoi logoi (Opif. 43), the Logos is
the force that holds all things together and lends them their rational
coherence.10
The relationship between the Logos as imbedded in the mind of God
and expressed in a more or less rational universe, reflecting Stoic analysis of
the relationship between thought and speech, will be productive for the
history of Christology, although exactly how the analogy between
expressed and unexpressed logos and the history of the Son of God works
is open to different construals.11 All of those construals lie in the later story
of the Logos in the history of Christian thought. The metaphysical heavy
lifting that the Logos does for Philo is clear enough, but the contribution of
the Logos to Philo’s program needs more analysis.
Even where the physics and the metaphysics are strongest, Philo is
involved in the exegesis of the Biblical text, and that exegesis leads him to
territory that is familiar in the Fourth Gospel, to the contrast of light and
darkness and the association of the creative and sustaining Word with the
Light (Opif. 30, 32). Implicit in this Logos theology of creation is an anthro-
pology and a doctrine of revelation that is universal and optimistic. Thus all
human beings have a reflection, fragment, or ray of the shiny Logos within
them (Opif. 146). They have, therefore, a natural way of relating to the first
principle, however distant it may be.
If this were the conceptual milieu from which the Gospel prologue
emerged, it is clear what its program would be: appropriation of a cosmo-
gony, an anthropology, and a notion of natural theology, stood on its head.
If (and it remains a big if), John know Philo or Philonism, he was a
rebellious pupil indeed.12 But there is more to Philo and his Logos than the
De opificio mundi, and a sequential reading of the Allegorical Commentary is
revealing. What follows is a brief review of the major texts, in their
‘canonical’ order.
11 For a survey of the options, see A. Grillmeier, S.J., Christ in Christian Tradition: Vol. 1,
From the Apostolic Age to Chalcedon (451) (Atlanta, 19752) 85–149.
12 Boyarin (‘The Gospel of the Memra,’ 243–284) offers a good analysis of this aspect of
the relationship between John and the varieties of Jewish Memra/Logos theology.
13 ‘But there is a higher thought than these. It comes from a voice in my own soul, which
oftentimes is god-possessed and divines where it does not know. This thought I will
record in words if I can. The voice told me that while God is indeed one, His highest and
chiefest powers are two, even goodness and sovereignty. Through His goodness He begat
all that is, through His sovereignty He rules what He has begotten. And in the midst
between the two there is a third which unites them, Reason, for it is through reason
(logos) that God is both ruler and good. Of these two potencies sovereignty and goodness
the Cherubim are symbols, as the fiery sword is the symbol of reason’ (Cher. 27–28,
translations from PLCL).
106 harold w. attridge
introduces what we might call Logos piety, in the form of a prayer for
reception of the virtues that flow from the doctrine.14 That pietistic form
will reappear, insistently, toward the end of the segment of the corpus.
De posteritate Caini, commenting on Gen 4:16–25, introduces an important
bit of new metaphorical language into the discourse, familial metaphors
defining the relationships between God/Logos/and humankind. ‘Right
reason’ (Logos) ought be accepted as the ‘bride of the soul’15 but it can
also be understood as the ‘father of the soul.’16 The cash value of these
metaphors is a recommendation to live a life of virtue, which may be the
subject of 90% of Philo’s allegory, but of interest at the moment is simply
the familial language, deployed rather promiscuously.
De gigantibus, commenting on Gen 6:1–4, does not have much to say
about the Logos in any of its forms, but it does add something to the
repertoire of familial images that will eventually come into relationship
with the Logos. Toward the end of the tractate, Philo introduces a more
complex anthropology than was evident in the Opif. While the Logos might
be available to all people who share the divine pneuma, there are, in fact,
different classes of human beings, who relate to their ultimate source in
different ways.17
Some tractates in the series add little. Toward the end of Quod Deus sit
immutabilis, which comments on Gen 6:4–12, Philo, stimulated by another
intertext, Num 22:31, finds the Logos symbolized by an ‘angel’ in the
biblical account. That angel is, in typical Philonic fashion, demythologized
and winds up being little more than the ‘conscience’ of a morally sensitive
individual, but the introduction of the personal image is still worth noting,
14 ‘O then, my mind, admit the image unalloyed of the two Cherubim, that having
learnt its clear lesson of the sovereignty and beneficence of the Cause, thou mayest reap
the fruits of a happy lot. For straightway thou shalt understand how these unmixed
potencies are mingled and united, how, where God is good, yet the glory of His
sovereignty is seen amid the beneficence, how, where He is sovereign, through the
sovereignty the beneficence still appears. Thus thou mayest gain the virtues begotten of
these potencies, a cheerful courage and a reverent awe toward God…’ (Cher. 29)
15 ‘For to those who welcome training, who make progress, and improve, witness is borne
of their deliberate choice of the good, that their very endeavor may not be left
unrewarded. But the fitting lot of those who have been held worthy of a wisdom that
needs no other teaching and no other learning is, apart form any agency of their own, to
accept from God’s hands Reason as their plighted spouse, and to receive knowledge,
which is partner in the life of the wise.’ (Post. 78)
16 ‘Probably, then, the lawgiver gives the title of father of our soul to right reason, and
of elders to the associates and friends of right reason. These were the first to fix the
boundaries of virtue. To the school of these it is advisable to go, to learn by their
teaching the essential matters’ (Post. 91)
17 Cf. Opif. 146 for the relationship of all humans to the Logos. Gig. 60–67 for different
types of soul.
philo and john 107
the relationship between the unique Son and his Father, not to the
addressees’ relationship to God and God’s word.
The final passage in this tractate, Conf. 146, continues to deploy ‘sonship’
language, but focuses instead on the relationship between the other sons
and the one unique ‘Son.’ Once again intertextual plays are essential to the
development of the argument. On the surface, the text is part of a
commentary on Gen 12:4, but the crucial passages are Deut 14:1; 32:18 and
32:6, all of which have to do with divine ‘begetting’ and ‘sonship.’22 The
passage offers a remarkable list of names for the cosmic principle:
Beginning, Name, Word, Man after his Image, Israel.
The logic of the list of names is worth attention, since it reflects the
overall logic of Philo’s play on the Logos. The cosmological category of the
‘logos’ has universalistic implications, but Philo happily combines that
language not only with allegorized familial language, but with language of
ethnic identification. The Word of God is finally equated not only with God,
but with Israel. The instability of the categories is endemic to Philo’s
rhetorical scheme. By virtue of its universal applicability, anyone who
partakes of right reason is a Son of God (or at least a Son of the Word of
God), but the embodiment of that sonship is clearly in an ethnic entity,
Israel. The Fourth Gospel shares the interest in making people ‘children of
thus: ‘Behold a man whose name is the rising’, strangest of titles, surely, if you suppose
that a being composed of soul and body is here described. But if you suppose that it is
that Incorporeal one, who differs not a whit from the divine image, you will agree that
the name of ‘rising’ assigned to him quite truly describes him. For that man is the eldest
son, whom the Father of all raised up, and elsewhere calls him His first born, and
indeed the Son thus begotten (gennetheis) followed the ways of his Father, and shaped
the different kinds, looking to the archetypal patterns which that Father supplied.’
(Conf. 62–63)
22 ‘But they who live in the knowledge of the One are rightly called ‘sons of God,’ as
Moses also acknowledges when he says, ‘Ye are sons of the Lord God (Deut 14:1), and ‘God
who begat thee’ (Deut 32:18), and ‘Is not He Himself they father?’ (Ibid 6). Indeed with
those whose soul is thus disposed it follows that they hold moral beauty to be the only
good, and this serves as a counterwork engineered by veteran warriors to fight the cause
which makes Pleasure the end and to subvert and overthrow it. But if there be any as yet
unfit to be called a Son of God, let him press to take his place under God’s First-born, the
Word, who holds the eldership among the angels, their ruler as it were. And many
names are his, for he is called, ‘the Beginning,’ and the Name of God, and His Word and
the Man after his image, and ‘he that sees,’ that is Israel. And therefore I was moved a
few pages above to praise the virtues of those who say that ‘We are all sons of one man’
(Gen 42:11). For if we have not yet become fit to be thought sons of God yet we may be sons
of His invisible image, the most holy Word. For the Word is the eldest-born image of
God and often indeed in the law-book we find another phrase, ‘sons of Israel,’ hearers,
that is, son of him that sees, since hearing stands second in estimation and below sight,
and the recipient of teaching is always second to him with whom realities present their
forms clear to his vision and not through the medium of instruction.’ (Conf. 146–148)
philo and john 109
God’ through the agency of the Logos. Does it share the ambivalence
about what that means?
Different intertexts generate slightly different nuances. The next tractate
in the commentary series, De migratione Abrahami, offers a structure similar
to that encountered in the Conf. Three passages, scattered at strategic points
in the commentary, invoke the notion of the Logos. The first appears close
to the beginning of the tractate and situates the Logos as the voice in the
mind that is God. The use of the mind/voice/speech triad is reminiscent of
the Trimorphic Protennoia from Nag Hammadi that has generated a certain
amount of speculation about the form of Logos theology underlying the
FG. 23 The conceit is a part of the Philonic repertoire of images for
describing the relationship of divine Word to its source, but it does not
seem to be fundamental to Philo’s play with the Logos, nor is the conceit
pervasive in his treatment of the theme.
Philo, in any case, does not operate with a simple ‘mind/speech/word’
pattern. Instead he finds the point of the analogy to be that Mind (nous)
dwells in speech (logos), both in the macrocosm of the universe and the
microcosm of the individual human being.24 The emphasis in this text is on
the cosmic Logos, which, of course, has its counterpart in the phenomenal
world.
The play on the relationship of mind and speech continues in the second
‘Logos’ passage of the tractate, Migr. 70–75. Here the emphasis is on the
human correlate and on the ‘cash value’ of the imagery, the necessity of
having mind and speech in harmony.25
The concluding deployment of the motif in this tractate moves quickly to
the ultimate cash value of the imagery: obedience to the Law of Moses.
Commenting on Gen 12:4, Philo invokes as secondary texts Gen 26:5 and
Deut 33:326 and equates God’s speech with the injunctions embedded in the
Law.
The Fourth Gospel will eventually take a similar route, hinted at already
in the Prologue in its juxtaposition of Jesus and Moses. Finally, the person
of the incarnate Word will issue a command in word (13:31) and deed
(15:13, 19:30) that aims to elicit the response of obedient discipleship.
The tractate Quis rerum divinarum heres sit explicitly treats a theme that is
at the heart of much of Philo’s ‘Logos-discourse.’ Perhaps the most impor-
tant passages for our purpose do not have to do with the Logos itself, but
with the alternatives to its parentage. Her. 53–63 is critical. The passage,
commenting on Gen 15:2, distinguishes those who are alive only to the
senses and those who are alive to the soul. The former are likened to those
who are ‘born of blood’ and those who are born of the spirit of God.27 It is
particularly intriguing to note the universalistic implications, at least at the
26 After citing Gen 12:4: ‘Abraham journeyed even as the Lord spoke to him.’ ‘This is the
aim extolled by the best philosophers, to live agreeably to nature; and it is attained
whenever the mind, having entered on virtue’s path, walks in the track of right reason
and follows God, mindful of His injunctions, and always and in all places recognizing
them all as valid both in action and speech. For ‘he journeyed as the Lord spake to him’:
the meaning of this is that as God speaks — and He speaks with consummate beauty and
excellence — so the good man does everything, blamelessly keeping straight the path of
life, so that the actions of the wise man are nothing else than the words of God. So in
another place He says, ‘Abraham did all my law’ (Gen 26:5). ‘Law’ being evidently
nothing else than the Divine word enjoining what we ought to do and forbidding what
we should not do, as Moses testifies by saying ‘he received a law from His words’ (Deut
33:3). If then, the law is a Divine word, and the man of true worth ‘does’ the law, he
assuredly ‘does the word: so that, as I said, God’s words are the wise man’s ‘doings.’ ‘
(Migr. 128–30)
27 ‘The name of the child born of the life which we have explained as the ‘life from a
kiss’ he puts before us as Damascus, which is interpreted as ‘the blood of a sackcloth
robe.’ By sackcloth robe he intimates the body, and by blood the ‘blood-life,’ and the
symbolism is very powerful and apt. We use ‘soul’ in two senses, both for the whole soul
and also for its dominant part, which properly speaking is the soul’s soul, just as the eye
can mean either the whole orb, or the most important part, by which we see. And
therefore the lawgiver held that the substance of the soul is twofold, blood being that of
the soul as a whole, and the divine breath or spirit that of its most dominant part. Thus
he says plainly ‘the soul of every flesh is the blood’ (Lev 17:11). He does well in
assigning the blood with its flowing stream to the riot of the manifold flesh, for each is
akin to the other. On the other hand he did not make the substance of the mind depend
on anything created, but represented it as breathed upon by God. For the Maker of all, he
says, ‘blew into his face the breath of life, and man became a living soul’ (Gen 2:7); just as
we are also told that he was fashioned after the image of his Maker (Gen 1.27). So we
have two kinds of men, one that of those who live by reason, the divine inbreathing, the
other of those who live by blood and the pleasure of the flesh. This last is a molded clod
of earth, the other is the faithful impress of the divine image.’ (Her. 53–57)
philo and john 111
surface, of the language of begetting from the Logos. People who live by
reason are the children of God in this scheme of things.
Explicit references to the Logos appear in Her. 201–214, in a comment on
Gen 15:9–10, with an intertextual play on Deut 5:5, as well as other texts.28
The Word here is portrayed in highly personal terms as a mediator
between heaven and earth. The most concrete referent of this personal
metaphor is no doubt the scriptural word that conveys both hope for the
creature and the words with which the child of God might ‘pledge never to
rebel.’
The notion of the Word as intermediary soon (Her. 215) leads to the
function of Word as divider, symbolized by the Menorah in the Temple.29
The cosmic word is furthermore the model of the human mind, which
exercises its rationality by making distinctions, or, more correctly, finding
the divisions that cosmic rationality has set in nature.30 The Logos as a
universal principle of rationality again looms large.
28 ‘I marvel too when I read of that sacred Word, which ran in impetuous breathless
haste ‘to stand between the living and the dead… To His Word, His chief messenger,
highest in age and honour, the Father of all has given the special prerogative, to stand
on the border and separate the creature from the Creator. This same Word both pleads
with the immortal as suppliant for afflicted mortality and acts as ambassador of the
ruler to the subject. He glories in this prerogative and proudly describes it in these words,
‘and I stood between the Lord and you’ (Deut 5:5), that is neither uncreated as God, nor
created as you, but midway between the two extremes, a surety to both sides; to the
parent, pledging the creature that it should never altogether rebel against the rein and
choose disorder rather than order; to the child, warranting his hopes that the merciful
God will never forget His own work. For I am the harbinger of peace to creation from that
God whose will is to bring wars to an end, who is ever the guardian of peace.’ (Her. 204–
06)
29 ‘But there is another matter which should not be passed over in silence. What are
called the half-pieces of the three animals when they are divided into two made six
altogether and thus the Severer, the Word, who separates the two sets of three and
stationed himself in their midst, was the seventh.’ (Her. 215)
30 ‘Our mind is likened to a pigeon, since the pigeon is a tame and domesticated creature,
while the turtle-dove stands as the figure of the mind which is the pattern of ours. For
the Word, or Reason of God, is a lover of the wild and solitary, never mixing with the
medley of things that have come into being only to perish, but its wonted resort is ever
above and its study is to wait on One and One only. So then the two natures, the reasoning
power within us and the divine Word or Reason above us, are indivisible, yet indivisible
as they are they divide other things without number. The divine Word separated and
apportioned all that is in nature. Our mind deals with all the things material and
immaterial which the mental process brings within its grasp, divides them into an infin-
ity of infinities and never ceases to cleave them. This is the result of its likeness to the
Father and Maker of all. For the Godhead is without mixture or infusion or parts and yet
has become to the whole world the cause of mixture, infusion, division and multiplicity
of parts. And thus it will be natural that these two which are in the likeness of God, the
mind within us and the mind above us, should subsist without parts or severance and yet
be strong and potent to divide and distinguish everything that is.’ (Her. 234–36)
112 harold w. attridge
The three passages on the Logos in Quis heres thus display the tension in
Philo’s notion of the Logos. The first and the third display the universal-
izing characteristics. The second, with its highly personal imagery and its
focus on the scriptural word of God in Torah, displays the particularistic or
national embodiment of the universal Logos.
De congressu eruditionis causa 170–74 provides a brief reference to the
Logos as Manna, shades of John 6.31 The treatise seems to offer a respite in
the development of the Logos theme in the whole corpus.
Philo’s engagement with the Logos reaches a new level in two passages
from De fuga, a commentary on Gen 16:6–12. Perhaps the best known is the
meditation on the law of cities of refuge (Exod 21:12–14) at Fug. 108–18, the
climactic conclusion of a long excursus (53–118) on the theme of flight
ultimately triggered by the patriarchal narratives. The key allegorical
conceit of this section is the equation of the Logos with the High Priest, at
whose death the involuntary manslayer could return from his city of
refuge. The allegorizing surpasses in its complexity anything seen before,
although many of the elements woven into this symbolic tapestry have
echoes in tractates on previous portions of the Pentateuch.
The passage begins at Fug. 108 with familial or relational imagery that
echoes Conf. 62–63.32 The Logos has God as his Father and Wisdom as his
mother, so cannot possibly be defiled by contact with either parent, as an
earthly high priest would be by contact with the corpse of either.
The heavenly Logos manifests the same associations with ‘light’ en-
countered in Opif. 30. There the allusion to Genesis was explicit; here it is a
faint echo, mediated by the glistening oil that anoints the high priest.33 This
creative Logos is the cosmic force, familiar from Opif. and Leg. As the
earthly high priest is cloaked in sacral attire, this heavenly priest wears its
holy garment, the world.34 This Logos, in good Stoic fashion, is the ‘bond of
31 On which see especially P. Borgen, Bread from Heaven: An Exegetical Study of the
Concept of Manna in the Gospel of John and the Writings of Philo, NovTSup 10 (Leiden,
1965).
32 ‘We say, then, that the High Priest is not a man, but a Divine Word and immune from
all unrighteousness whether intentional or unintentional. For Moses says that he cannot
defile himself either for the father, the mind, nor for the mother, sense perception (Lev
21:11 – a play on the regulations regarding corpse impurity and the high priest), because,
methinks, he is the child of parents incorruptible and wholly free from stain, his father
being God, who is likewise Father of all, and his mother Wisdom, through whom the
universe came into existence; because, moreover, his head has been anointed with oil,
and by this I mean that his ruling faculty is illumined with a brilliant light, in such
wise that he is deemed worthy ‘to put on the garments.’ (Fug. 108–10)
33 See the end of Fug. 110.
34 ‘Now the garments which the supreme Word of Him that is puts on as raiment are the
world, for He arrays Himself in earth and air and water and fire and all that comes
forth from these; while the body is the clothing of the soul considered as the principle of
philo and john 113
all existence, which holds and knits together all the parts, preventing them
from being dissolved and separated’ (Fug. 112).
The complex meditation moves in a different direction when Philo
reflects on the stipulations regarding the marriage of the high priest (Lev
21:11–12). In the law that the high priest is to marry a ‘maiden of the
hallowed people, pure and undefiled and of ever inviolate intention’ Philo
finds a sign of the relationship between the self and God. He can refer to
that relationship in two perhaps contradictory ways. At first blush the
virgin soul that the high priestly Logos can marry is both daughter and
wife of the All-sovereign God.35 But the soul is also the spouse of the
Word!36 Does that mean that the soul is polygamous, or that ‘marriage’ to
God and to God’s Word are one and the same? The latter surely is what
Philo intends.
Philo’s rhetoric can certainly be explained in a cool and rational way. If
the Word of God, that is Torah, lives in the hearts of those who ‘see God,’
then they will not sin. But the medium is the message. The relationship to
God’s Word must be an intimate and emotional one. Philo insists that God
and God’s word must abide in the heart and mind with the intensity of the
most intimate of unions. As Philo continues to treat the theme of the Logos,
he continues to find more personal and more emotive language with which
to do so. The emotive commitment to this ‘rational mysticism’ of the
Logos is evident in the prayer that closes this section of the De fuga:
Wherefore it is meet that we should pray that he who is at once High Priest and
King may live in our soul (zên en psychê) as Monitor on the seat of justice, seeing
that he has received for his proper sphere the entire court of our understanding,
and faces unabashed all who are brought up for judgment there. (Fug. 118)
physical life and the virtues of the wise man’s understanding.’ (Fug. 110)
35 ‘The harlot he (the high priest/Logos) deigns not even to look at, having learned to
love her who adopted, as her one Husband and Father, God the All sovereign’ (Fug.
114).
36 ‘The observations which I have been making are not beside the mark, but are meant to
shew that the fixing of the High Priest’s death as the term for the return of the exiles is
in perfect accordance with the natural fitness of things (Num 35:25). For so long as this
holiest Word is alive and is still present in the soul, it is out of the question that an
unintentional offence should come back into it; for this holy Word is by nature incapable
of taking part in and of admitting to itself any sin whatever. But if the Word die, not by
being itself destroyed, but by being withdrawn out of our soul, the way is at one open for
the return of unintentional errors; for if it was abiding within us alive and well when
they were removed, assuredly when it departs and goes elsewhere they will be
reinstated. For the Monitor, the undefiled High Priest, enjoys as the fruit of his nature
the special prerogative of never admitting into himself any uncertainty of judgment.’
(Fug. 117–18)
114 harold w. attridge
The tractate De mutatione nominum does not contribute much directly to the
development of a theology of the Logos, but it does provide essential
background in its first section (1–59) which reflects at length on the
unknowability of God, the function of names for God, and the ‘signifying’
character of the ‘potencies’ by which God is present in the world.
Philo returns full throttle to the theme of the Logos in the last text in the
sequence, De somniis 1, an allegorical treatment of Gen 28:11–13, which
includes three clusters of Logos texts. The first comes at the climax of the
initial exposition (1–71). While Gen 28:11, ‘he met a place’ is the primary
text, Philo introduces other texts to support his connection of the Logos and
Place. He first evokes Exod 24:10, Deut 12:5, and Exod 20:24,37 to affirm that
the Logos or Word of God is a ‘place’ filled with the divine potencies, an
evocation of the notion encountered in Cher. 34 and Mut. 15–36, all of which
develop Stoic notions of the immanent logoi.
Philo thus begins this riff on the Logos with an evocation of its cosmic
creative and sustaining functions. He next sounds a theological theme,
defining the relationship of God and Logos.38 In the process he notes both
the adequacy and inadequacy of encounter with the Word of God. That
Word is the only access one has to God, but it is finally inadequate to grasp
who God really is. Philo’s assessment of the human relationship with God,
whatever the dynamics of universalism and particularism in his parsing of
the Logos/Torah, has an air of melancholy. God is disclosed, but never
adequately. Human yearning for God is bound to be unfulfilled. The
37 ‘Now ‘place’ has a threefold meaning, firstly that of a space filled by a material
form, secondly that of the Divine Word, which God Himself has completely filled
throughout with incorporeal potencies; for ‘they saw,’ says Moses, ‘the place where the
God of Israel stood’ ‘ (Exod 24:10). Only in this place did he permit them to sacrifice,
forbidding them to do so elsewhere: for they were expressly bidden to go up ‘to the place
which the Lord God shall choose’ (Deut 12:5), and there to sacrifice ‘the whole burnt
offering and the peace offerings’ (Exod 20:24) and to offer the other pure sacrifices. There
is a third signification, in keeping with which God Himself is called a place, by reason
of His containing things, and being contained by nothing whatever, and being a place for
all to flee into, and because He is Himself the space which holds Him; for He is that
which He Himself has occupied, and naught encloses Him but Himself.’ (Somn. 1.62–63)
38 Philo opened by citing Gen 22:3: ‘Tell me, pray, did he who had come to the place see
it from afar?’ He explained: ‘Nay, it would seem that one and the same word is used of
two different things: one of these is a divine Word, the other the God Who was before
the Word. One who has come from abroad under Wisdom’s guidance arrives at the former
place, thus attaining in the divine word the sum and consummation of service. But when
he has his place in the divine Word he does not actually reach Him Who is in very
essence God, but sees Him from afar, or rather not even from a distance is he capable of
contemplating Him; all he sees is the bare fact that God is far away from all Creation,
and the apprehension of Him is removed to a very great distance from all human power
of thought.’ (Somn. 1.64–66)
philo and john 115
approach to the Place where God is, God’s Word, is bound to be, like that
of Abraham, ‘from afar’ ‘a long way off from God for Whom no name
nor utterance nor conception of any sort is adequate’ (Somn. 1.67).
While Philo paints this rather stark picture of the chasm between God
and humankind, he can also accentuate the positive dimension of what the
ever inadequate Word can convey. In doing so he returns to the personal
or mythological categories that had played so prominent a role in Fuga.
God’s word ‘succours the lovers of virtue’ and functions as a physician of
the soul, although these succouring words are also evidence of a God who
has, in Philo’s words ‘withdrawn’ from contact.39
This tractate like no other sketches a theology of the Word of God. The
foundation is the traditional sapiential trope, as old as Ben Sira, of the
universality of Wisdom now firmly embedded in the particularity of the
scriptural word. ‘Word’ particularly in the second sense, is a source of
comfort and personal consolation, but in either sense, it remains a cipher, a
sign, a pointer to a God who remains hidden.
Philo flirts here with a radical apophaticism that subjects both reason and
revelation to critique. Yet He concludes this meditation on a positive note
at Somn. 1.71, suggesting that the Word as suddenly manifesting insight
provides an access to God that delights the soul.40 In this first section of
Somn. Philo probes the limits of his rational theology and his confidence in
Logos, whatever that means. He steps to the brink of recognizing the
ultimate hiddenness of God, but then retreats, keeping in dialectical tension
mystery and disclosure.
The next section (72–119) reaffirms the positive. Early on (85–86) Philo
explains how the Logos is referred to by the word ‘sun,’ as in Gen 19:23,
39 ‘For God, not deeming it meet that sense should perceive Him, sends forth His Words
to succour the lovers of virtue, and they act as physicians of the soul and completely heal
its infirmities, giving holy exhortations with all the force of irreversible enactments,
and calling to the exercise and practice of these and the like trainers implanting
strength and power and vigour that no adversary can withstand. Meet and right then is
it that Jacob, having come to sense-perception, meets not now God but a word of God, even
as did Abraham, the grandfather of his wisdom. For we are told that ‘the Lord
departed, returned to his place’ (Gen 18:33). By ‘returning to his place’ is implied the
meeting with sacred Words of a kind from which the God Who is prior to all things has
withdrawn, ceasing to extend visions that proceed from Himself, but only those that
proceed from the potencies inferior to Him.’ (Somn. 1.70)
40 ‘There is an extraordinary fitness in saying not that he came to the place, but that he
met with a place; for coming is a matter of choice, but there is often no exercise of choice
in meeting. Thus should the divine Word, by manifesting Itself suddenly and offering
Itself as a fellow-traveler to a lonely soul, hold out to it an unlooked for joy – which is
greater than hope. For Moses too, when he ‘leads out the people to meet God’ (Exod
19:17), knows full well that He comes all unseen to the souls that yearn to come into His
presence.’ (Somn. 1.71)
116 harold w. attridge
and the imagery of light continues in what follows. At the end of the
section (115–18), using Exod 10:3, Philo waxes eloquent, painting the Logos
as a very special revealer who comes to the soul in need.41
Space and time preclude a detailed review of the passages at the end of
De somniis, which reinforce the personal imagery that Philo has used in this
tractate. The word, symbolized the stone pillow on which the patriarch
sleeps, is a ‘manly’ principle (Somn. 1.124). The cautionary note is sounded
in the discussion of the Logos as a linguistic pointer, a name, theos, of the
unnamed and unnamable God (Somn. 1.230). Yet this pointer, this Angel,
named God, acts in the place of God (Somn. 1.238–40). It is the Hyparch,
God’s vice-regent, sustaining all (Somn. 1.241) as it reveals the unfathom-
able.
Conclusion
41 ‘For so long as mind and sense-perception imagine that they get a firm grasp, mind of
the objects of mind and sense of the objects of sense, and thus move aloft in the sky, the
divine Word is far away. But when each of them acknowledges its weakness, and going
through a kind of setting passes out of sight, right reason is forward to meet and greet at
once the practicing soul, whose willing champion he is when it despairs of itself and
waits for him who invisibly comes from without to its succour.’ (Somn. 1.119)
42 For the notion, see H. W. Attridge, ‘Genre Bending in the Fourth Gospel,’ JBL 121
(2002) 3–21.
philo and john 117
‘DAY ONE’:
PLATONIZING EXEGETICAL TRADITIONS OF
GENESIS 1:1–5 IN JOHN AND JEWISH AUTHORS*
Gregory E. Sterling
In the throne scene that opens the cycle of seven seals in the Apocalypse,
the prophet John saw four living creatures. He compared the appearance
of the first to a lion, of the second to a ox, of the third to a human being,
and of the fourth to an eagle.1 As is well known, these four creatures later
served as symbols for each of the New Testament gospels.2 The Fourth
Gospel was commonly identified with the eagle, determined in part on the
basis of the soaring nature of the opening section of the gospel. The eleva-
ted nature of the Prologue exists both in its language and in its concepts.
The language of the Prologue contains a poetic lilt that has led most
interpreters to posit an underlying hymn, although there is little consensus
on the reconstruction of the hymn.3 The concepts of the Prologue consti-
tute some of the highest Christological affirmations of the New Testament.
At the same time, the background and underlying assumptions that
provide the conceptual framework for these statements are opaque. The
author assumed that the implied reader would be familiar with the larger
framework, an assumption that has set off a vigorous debate.
* I gave an earlier draft of this article as a paper to the Philo of Alexandria Group at
the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in November of 2004. I am
grateful to Hindy Najman and David T. Runia for the invitation to participate and for
the members of the editorial board who recommended that we include this presentation
in SPhA. I am particularly grateful to Tom Tobin who provided a careful critique.
1 Rev 4:6–8.
2 The earliest attestation is Irenaeus, Adv. haer. 3.11.8, who identified the four as
follows: the lion=John, the ox=Luke, the human=Matthew, and the eagle=Mark. This is
not the typical order of the gospels for Irenaeus who usually follows the so-called
Western order: Matthew, John, Luke, and Mark. Victorinus, Comm. in Apoc. 4.4 (Jerome
recension) gives the more popular list: the lion=Mark, the human=Matthew, the
ox=Luke, and the eagle=John. For details and bibliography see D. E. Aune, Revelation, 3
vols., WBC 52A, B, C (Dallas/Nashville, 1997–98) 1.300.
3 One of the most important treatments in my judgment is G. Rochais, ‘La formation du
prologue (part 1),’ ScEs 37 (1985) 5–44 and idem, ‘La formation du prologue (Jn 1,1–18) (2nd
part),’ ScEs 37 (1985) 161–87. There are convenient summaries of the major reconstructions
in R. E. Brown, The Gospel According to John, 2 vols.; AB 29, 29A (Garden City, N.Y,
1966–70) 21–23 and M. Endo, Creation and Christology: A Study on the Johannine Prologue
in the Light of Early Jewish Creation Accounts, WUNT 2.149 (Tübingen, 2002) 182–87.
platonizing exegetical traditions of genesis 1:1-5 119
4 For a recent summary of the basic views of the religionsgeschichlich background of the
Prologue see C. A. Evans, Word and Glory: On the Exegetical and Theological Background
of John’s Prologue, JSNTSup 89 (Sheffield, 1993). For the background of the Fourth Gos-
pel as a whole with attention to the Prologue see J. Frey, ‘Auf der Suche nach dem Kon-
text des vierten Evangeliums: Eine forschungsgeschichtliche Einführung,’ in J. Frey and
U. Schnelle (edd.), Kontexte des Johannesevangeliums: Das vierte Evangelium in religions-
und traditionsgeschichtlicher Perspective, WUNT 175 (Tübingen, 2004) 1–45, esp. 4–35.
5 It is routine for commentators to point to Heraclitus and the Stoics. For an analysis of
the former see E. Fascher, ‘Vom Logos des Heraklit und dem Logos des Johannes,’ in idem,
Frage und Antwort: Studien zur Theologie und Religionsgeschichte (Berlin, 1968) 117–33.
On the Stoic similarities see J. R. Harris, ‘Stoic Origin of the Fourth Gospel,’ BJRL 6
(1921–22) 439–51.
6 A classic treatment along these lines is A. Aall, Der Logos: Geschichte seiner Entwicke-
lung in der griechischen Philosophie und der christlichen Literatur, 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1896–
99; reprinted, Frankfurt, 1968) esp. 2:109–48. Two of the most important modern repre-
sentatives of this position are C. H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel
(Cambridge, 1970) 263–85 and T. H. Tobin, ‘The Prologue of John and Hellenistic Jewish
Speculation,’ CBQ 52 (1990) 252–69.
7 The most important example is probably Brown, The Gospel According to John, 1:519–
24. Brown is skeptical of Hellenistic influence. He includes the targumim in his
discussion (see the next option).
8 A major representative of this view is M. McNamara, ‘Logos of the Fourth Gospel and
Memra of the Palestinian Targum (Ex 1242),’ ExpTim 79 (1967–68) 115–17. More recently
D. Boyarin, ‘The Gospel of the Memra: Jewish Binitarianism and the Prologue to John,’
HTR 94 (2001) 243–84, has argued for the importance of the Memra; however, he has
argued that Philo and the targumim share a common Logos theology.
9 The most important advocate of this was W. Boussett, Kyrios Christos: Geschichte des
Christusglaubens von den Anfängen des Christentums bis Irenaeus, 4th ed., FRLANT n. F. 4
(Göttingen, 1921) 304–16. The ET is Kyrios Christos: A History of the Belief in Christ from
the Beginnings of the Christianity to Irenaeus, J. E. Steely (trans.) (Nashville, 1970) 385–
99.
10 The most famous advocate is R. Bultmann, ‘Der religionsgeschichtliche Hintergrund
des Prologs zum Johannes-Evangelium,’ in Eucharisterion: Festschrift für H. Gunkel (1923)
2:3–26; reprinted in E. Dinkler (ed.), Rudolf Bultmann Exegetica: Aufsätze zur Erforschung
des Neuen Testaments (Tübingen, 1967) 10–35 and idem, The Gospel of John: A
Commentary (Philadelphia, 1971) 20–31.
11 The most important of these include P. Borgen, ‘Observations on the Targumic Charac-
ter of the Prologue of John,’ NTS 16 (1969–70) 288–95, who argues that John drew from
120 gregory e. sterling
Gen 1:1–5; idem, ‘Logos was the True Light: Contributions to the Interpretation of the
Prologue of John,’ NovT 14 (1972) 115–30, which is based in part on the preceding; idem,
Philo, John and Paul: New Perspectives on Judaism and Early Christianity, BJS 131
(Atlanta, 1987) 75–101, a revised and enlarged version of the preceding articles; Boyarin,
‘The Gospel of the Memra,’ 243–84, esp. 267, 271, 279, where he argues that John 1:1–5 is a
midrash on Gen 1:1–5 and that the remainder of the Prologue is an expansion; J. Painter,
‘Rereading Genesis in the Prologue of John,’ in D. E. Aune, T. Seland, and J. H. Ulrichsen,
Neotestamentica et Philonica: Studies in Honor of Peder Borgen, NovTSup 106 (Leiden/
Boston, 2003) 179–201; and J. Leonhardt-Balzer, ‘Der Logos und die Schöpfung: Streif-
lichter bei Philo (Op 20–25) und im Johannesprolog (Joh 1,1–18),’ in Frey and Schnelle
(edd.), Kontexte des Johannesevangeliums, 296–319. For broader treatments of Jewish exe-
getical traditions and the Prologue see Evans, Word and Glory, 100–45 and Endo, Creation
and Christology. C. Carmichael, The Story of Creation: Its Origin and Its Interpretation in
Philo and the Fourth Gospel (Ithaca/London, 1996), attempted to draw parallels between
the days of creation in Philo and the days in John 1:19–2:1. For the broader use of Genesis
in John see E. C. Hoskyns, ‘Genesis I–III and St. John’s Gospel,’ JTS 21 (1920) 210–18, esp.
216–17.
12 I have used the editions of J. W. Wevers (ed.), Genesis, Septuaginta, Vetus Testamen-
tum Graecum 1 (Göttingen, 1974) and B. Aland, K. Aland et al. (edd.), Novum Testamen-
tum Graece, 27th ed. (Stuttgart, 1995).
platonizing exegetical traditions of genesis 1:1-5 121
o{ti kalovn.
kai; diecwvrisen oJ qeo;~
5
ajna; mevson tou` fwto;~ kai; to; fw`~
kai; ajna; mevson tou` skovtou~. ejn th/` skotiva/ faivnei,
kai; hJ skotiva aujto; ouj katevlaben.
5
kai; ejkavlesen oJ qeo;~
to; fw`~ hJmevran
kai; to skovto~ ejkavlesen nuvkta.
kai; ejgevneto eJspevra
kai; ejgevneto prwiv,
hJmevra miva.
13 The exception to this is ‘darkness’ (skovto~) which appears in Gen 1:2; however, it also
appears in Gen 1:4–5 which is the basis for the statements in the Prologue.
14 A statement of the phenomenon in classic terms can be found in S. R. Driver, An Intro-
duction to the Literature of the Old Testament, rev. ed., International Theological Library
(New York, 1913) 363. For a contemporary treatment of repetition see M. O’Connor,
Hebrew Verse Structure (Winona Lake, IN, 1980) 109–11 and 361–70.
15 Judg 5:6a and b and c, 19a and b, 21a and b, 30d and e.
16 Ps 121:1b and 2a, 3b and 4a; 4b and 5a.
17 C. F. Burney, The Aramaic Origin of the Fourth Gospel (Oxford, 1922), argued that the
Fourth Gospel was based on an Aramaic original. He offered a reconstruction of the hymn
in Aramaic (pp. 40–41). Bultmann, The Gospel of John, 18, accepted Burney’s thesis for
the Prologue and the Jesus-discourses, but not for the Gospel as a whole.
122 gregory e. sterling
represents a conceptual break between the first strophe that describes the
relationship between the Logos and God (vv. 1–2) and the second strophe
that describes the relationship between the Logos and creation (vv. 3–5). I
have set out the verses in a chart that places the repetition in bold.
1
ejn ajrch/` h\n oJ lovgo~,
kai; oJ lovgo~ h\n pro;~ to;n qeovn,
kai; qeo;~ h\n oJ lovgo~.
2
ou|to~ h\n ejn ajrch/` pro;~ to;n qeovn.
3
pavnta di∆ aujtou` ejgevneto,
kai; cwri;~ aujtou` ejgevneto oujde; e{n.
o} gevgonen 4ejn aujtw/` zwh; h\n,
kai; hJ zwh; h\n to; fw`~ tw`n ajnqrwvpwn:
5
kai; to; fw`~ ejn th/` skotiva/ faivnei,
kai; hJ skotiva aujto; ouj katevlaben.
18 A case can be made for vv. 9–11 on the basis of parallelism; however, these verses do
not use staircase parallelism with the consistency that we find in vv. 1–2 and 3–5.
«Hn to; fw`~ to; ajlhqinovn,
o} fwtivzei pavnta a[nqrwpon,
ejrcovmenon eij~ to;n kovsmon.
ejn tw/` kovsmw/ h\n,
kai; oJ kovsmo~ di∆ aujtou` ejgevneto,
kai; oJ kovsmo~ aujto;n ouj parevlabon.
eij~ ta; i[dia h\lqen,
kai; oiJ i[dioi aujto;n ouj parevlabon.
It is possible to understand the ejrcovmenon to refer back to a[nqrwpon which would be an
example of climactic parallelism, from fw`~ to o{, from a[nqrwpon to ejrcovmenon, from kovsmon
to kov s mw/ where the pattern is broken. However, the following lines emphasize the
presence of the fw` ~ in the world. I therefore understand fw`~ as the antecedent of
ejrcovmenon. The first three lines thus emphasize fw`~ (fw`~, o{, ejrcovmenon). The next three
lines emphasize kov s mo~ (ejn tw/` kovsmw/, oJ kovsmo~, oJ kovsmo~) and the last two oiJ i[dioi (ta;
i[dia, oiJ i[dioi). The lines repeat key vocabulary, but do not interlock vocabulary in the
pattern of vv. 1–2 and 3–5.
platonizing exegetical traditions of genesis 1:1-5 123
1
ejn ajrch/` ejpoivhsen oJ qeo;~ to;n oujrano;n kai; th;n gh`n.
2
hJ de; gh` h\n ajovrato~ kai; ajkataskeuvsasto~,
kai; skovto~ ejpavnw th`~ ajbuvssou,
kai; pneu`ma qeou` ejpefevreto ejpavnw tou` u{dato~.
3
kai; ei\pen oJ qeov~
Genhqhvtw fw`~. kai; ejgevneto fw`~.
4
kai; ei\den oJ qeo;~ to; fw`~ o{ti kalovn.
kai; diecwvrisen oJ qeo;~ ajna; mevson tou` fwto;~
kai; ajna; mevson tou` skovtou~.
5
kai; ejkavlesen oJ qeo;~ to; fw`~ hJmevran
kai; to; skovto~ ejkavlesen nuvkta.
kai; ejgevneto eJspevra kai; ejgevneto prwiv, hJmevra miva.
While this is a prose text and does not follow the conventions of Semitic
poetry with any rigor, there is an unmistakable pattern of interlocking
nouns from one unit of thought (each verse in this case) to another. It is
possible that the author of the Prologue or the underlying hymn noted this
general pattern and took it as a cue to create the interlocking parallelism of
John 1:1–2 and 3–5. This had the result of giving the Prologue an unmistak-
able poetic feel. While the free recasting of Genesis 1:1–5 in John 1:1–5
makes it impossible to consider this as anything more than a possibility, it is
worth noting that the Prologue makes use of three of the same interlock-
ing nouns that give Genesis 1:1–5 a sense of unity: qeov~, fw`~, and skovto~.
We thus have a unit of text (or two units of text if there is an underlying
hymn) that drew heavily from Genesis 1:1–5. At the same time, the Johan-
nine Prologue has redefined the biblical language by positioning it in both a
different literary and a different intellectual framework. Can we identify
the specific framework that would enable us to understand the shifts from
Genesis 1:1–5 to the Prologue? I think that we can. We will begin by
examining some of the hints of the larger intellectual framework that are
embedded within the Prologue of John and then consider possible
exegetical traditions that embrace a similar framework.
We will begin with the hints in the Prologue. We take our cue from an
ancient reader. Augustine set out what he had found in certain Neoplatonic
treatises: ‘In them I read — not, of course, word for word, though the sense
was the same and it was supported by all kinds of different arguments —
that at the beginning of time the Word already was; and God had the Word
abiding with him, and the Word was God. He abode, at the beginning of
124 gregory e. sterling
time, with God.’ The bishop continued, ‘It was through him that all things
came into existence, and without him came nothing that has come to be. In
him there was life, and that life was the light of men. And the light shines in
darkness, a darkness which is not able to master it.’19 Was Augustine right?
Should we understand a basic congruity between the first two strophes of
the Prologue and the Platonic tradition? There are at least four potential
points of contact.
The World of Being versus the World of Becoming. The first point that draws
our attention is the shift in verbs and tenses from ‘was’ (h\n) to ‘came into
existence’ (ejgevneto): ‘In the beginning was (h\n) the Word, and the Word
was (h\n) with God, and the Word was (h\n) God. He was (h\n) in the begin-
ning with God. Everything came into existence (ejgevneto) through him, and
without him came into existence (ejgevneto) not even one thing.’20 The four-
fold repetition of ‘was’ (h\n) contrasts sharply with the twofold appearance
of ‘came into existence’ (ejgevneto). The shift may have been inspired by the
shift in Genesis 1:2–3: ‘the earth was (h\n) invisible and unshaped (ajovrato~
kai; ajkataskeuvasto~) .., And God said: ‘Let there be light’ (Genhvqhtw fw`~).
And light came into existence (kai; ejgevneto fw`~).’ The Genesis text appears
to indicate a temporal distinction between a primordial period and the crea-
tion itself, although the precise relationship between the two is not entirely
clear.21 In John the distinction between the tenses is used both temporally
and ontologically. The temporal distinction is no longer between two
stages in creation, but between the Logos that exists alongside God in
eternity and the later creation. The ontological claim is related: the fact that
the Logos pre-exists creation and is the agent through whom the cosmos
came into existence makes the Logos superior to creation. In this way, the
Prologue of John has taken a temporal marker in the narrative and given it
an ontological twist.
19 Augustine, Conf. 7.9. Augustine went on to include some statements within vv. 8–12. Cf.
also his comments on the Platonic nature of the Prologue in Civ. 10.29 and Tract. Ev. Jo.
2.4. He treated John 1:1–14 in Trin. 13. For details on Conf. 7.9 see J. J. O’Donnell,
Augustine, Confessions, 3 vols. (Oxford, 1992) 2.413–26.
20 John 1:1–3.
21 There is a syntactical problem in the Hebrew which does not exist in the Greek
translation which the Fourth Evangelist appears to have known. There are four major
syntactical possibilities in the Hebrew of Gen 1:1–3. Ibn Ezra thought that v. 1 was a
temporal clause subordinate to the main clause in v. 2. Rashi thought that v. 1 was a
subordinate clause subordinate to the main clause in v. 3; v. 2 was a parenthetical inser-
tion. The traditional view among Christian commentators is that v. 1 is an independent
clause and represents the first act of creation that is followed by subsequent acts in vv. 2–
3. Many modern scholars consider v. 1 to be a heading for the creation account in much the
same way that 2:4a introduces the second creation account. For details and bibliography
see G. J. Wenham, Genesis, 2 vols., WBC 1–2 (Waco, Texas, 1987–94) 1.10–13. The
translators of the LXX understood v. 1 to be an independent sentence.
platonizing exegetical traditions of genesis 1:1-5 125
22 John 1:1 (3t.), 2, 4 (bis), 9 (although this may be a periphrasis with ej r cov m enon), 15
(bis), 18 (w[n).
23 John 1:3 (3t.), 10. See also vv. 6, 14, 17.
24 Plato, Tim. 27d–28b.
25 Plato, Tim. 27d–28a is cited or alluded to in a number of later Platonists, e.g.,
Apuleius, De Plat. 193 and Numenius F 7. Cf. also the Pythagorean Nicomachus, Intr.
Arith. 1.2.1.
26 Cf. also 1 John 1:1 and Rev 19:13.
27 Gen 1:3, 6, 9, 14, 20, 24; cf. also 1:26, 29.
126 gregory e. sterling
the text of Genesis and the Prologue: the principal modus operandi for crea-
tion in Genesis 1 has been hypothesized into a separate being who exists
beside God in the Prologue.28 What led to this hypostasization? Is there
anything in the Platonic tradition that would help us?
Plato did not posit a Logos; he did have second principles. For example,
he made the Good a second principle in Republic 6, the One in the Parme-
nides, the Demiurge or World Soul in the Timaeus, and the principles of
unlimited (indeterminate potentiality) and limit (precise numbers) in the
Philebus. Middle Platonists so elevated God or the Supreme Principle that
they found it necessary to posit an intermediary metaphysical principle.
They gave this intermediary a number of names, including ‘the Idea,’29
‘the heavenly Mind,’30 ‘the demiurgic God,’31 and the ‘Logos.’ The Logos
appeared as early as Antiochus of Ascalon32 and Eudorus33 who are among
the earliest known representatives of Middle Platonism. Later Platonists
such as Plutarch used the Logos for the immanent (not the transcendent)
aspect of God’s relationship to the cosmos and humanity, i.e., how the
intermediary relates to humanity but not how the intermediary relates to
the divine. In his allegorical interpretation of the Isis-Osiris myth, Plutarch
identified Isis with the receptacle, Osiris with the Logos, and their offspring
Horus with the sense-perceptible cosmos, brought about by the imposition
of order and reason on the receptacle.34 This quick survey suggests that
Platonism offered a framework that posited an intermediary between the
transcendent God and humanity, a being that in some texts served the
same functions as the Logos in John. This, however, is a rather broad point
of comparison and only demonstrates the conceptual compatibility of an
intermediary figure between the Prologue and the Platonic tradition. Is
there something more specific?
Prepositional Metaphysics. The Prologue assigns a role to the Logos in cre-
ation that corresponds to the Middle Platonic position in a debate among
Stoics, Peripatetics, and Platonists. The second strophe opens with the
refrain: ‘everything came into existence through him’ (pavnta di∆ aujtou`
28 This point led Bultmann and E. Haenchen to reject the connection between Gen 1:3 and
the Logos of the Prologue. See Bultmann, The Gospel of John, 20–21 and E. Haenchen,
John, 2 vols.; Hermeneia (Philadelphia, 1980) 1:136. I find their objection incredible in
light of the heavy dependence of John 1:1–5 on Gen 1:1–5 and the identification of the
Logos with ‘and God said’ in Jewish exegetical traditions (see below).
29 Timaeus of Locri, On the Nature of the World and the Soul 7.
30 Alcinous, Didaskalikos 10.3.
31 Numenius F 12 ll. 1–3.
32 See Cicero, Acad. Post. 28–29.
33 The evidence is Philonic, i.e., if it can be assumed that the two shared a common
view. See J. Dillon, The Middle Platonists: 80 B.C. to A.D. 220 (Ithaca, N.Y. 1977) 128.
34 Plutarch, Mor. 369.
platonizing exegetical traditions of genesis 1:1-5 127
35 John 1:3.
36 John 1:10.
37 I have provided a more extensive treatment of this in ‘Prepositional Metaphysics in
Jewish Wisdom Speculation and Early Christian Liturgical Texts,’ SPhA 9 (1997) 219–38.
38 Aristotle, Phys. 2.3 (194b–95a); 2.7 (198a); Metaph. 1.3.1 (933a–b); 5.2.1–3 (1013a–b);
An. post. 2.11 (94a 20–24). For a full discussion see Phys. 2.3–9 (194b–200b).
39 E.g., Seneca, Ep. 65.4–6; Alexander of Aphrodisias, De fato 3 (cited by Eusebius, Praep.
ev. 6.9.3–6); and Clement, Strom. 8.9.26.2–3; 8.9.28.2. On the limitations of this illustra-
tion see R. K. Sprague, ‘The Four Causes: Aristotle’s Exposition and Ours,’ The Monist 52
(1968) 298–300.
40 Seneca, Ep. 65.2.
128 gregory e. sterling
one cause. Later Stoics made more elaborate distinctions, but similarly
stopped short of speaking of more than one cause. The second position is
the Peripatetic. Seneca modified Aristotle slightly by stating that there were
three causes: the material, the efficient, and the formal. He made the final
cause an afterthought.41 The four did, however, become standard in later
Peripatetic thinking. The final position Seneca presents is that of Plato who
— he claims — added a fifth cause, the idea. It is at this juncture that Seneca
lists the prepositional phrases as part of the discussion: the material ‘from
which’ (ex quo), the agent ‘by whom/which’ (a quo), the formal ‘in which’
(in quo), the idea ‘according to which’ (ad quod), and the final ‘on account of
which’ (propter quod).42 He then illustrated the Platonic understanding with
a brief cosmology: God is the agent or a quo, matter is the ex quo, the shape
of the world is the forma or in quo, the pattern (exemplar) is the idea or ad
quod, and the goodness of the Creator is the propter quod. This exposition of
Plato reflects the Middle Platonic interpretations of their Master better than
that of the Athenian himself.
Middle and NeoPlatonists had different understandings of the tradition.
One of the tendencies was to expand the number of causes. Philo of Alex-
andria is an important witness to this tradition.43 There are three texts in
Philo which set out his version of the Middle Platonic position.44 The most
important is On the cherubim 124–27, in which the exegete interprets a state-
ment in Genesis 4:1 which he attributes to Adam rather than Eve: ‘I have
gained possession of a person through God (dia; tou' qeou').’45 Philo claimed
that Adam erred in making such a statement. Why? ‘God is the cause
(ai[tion), not the instrument (o[rganon). That which comes into existence,
comes through an instrument (di∆ ojrgavnou) but by a cause (uJpo; ... aijtivou).’
He explained: ‘For many things must come together for the generation of
something: the by whom/which (to; uJf∆ ou|), the from which (to; ejx ou|), the
through whom/which (to; di∆ ou|) , and the for which (to; di∆ o{) .’ He
proceeded to identify each: ‘The by whom/which (to; uJf∆ ou|) is the cause (to;
ai[ t ion), the from which (to; ejx ou|) is the matter (hJ u{lh), the through
whom/which (to; di∆ ou|) is the tool (to; ejrgalei'on), the for which (to; di∆ o{) is
the purpose (hJ aijtiva).’ Like Seneca, he identified each of these in the
Platonic cosmos: the ‘cause (ai[tion) is God, by whom (uJf∆ ou|) it came into
existence, its material (hJ u{lh) is the four elements out of which (ejx w|n) it has
been composed, its instrument (o[rganon) is the Logos of God (lovgo" qeou')
through whom (di∆ ou|) it was constructed, the purpose (aij t iv a ) of its
construction is the goodness of the Demiurge.’ Philo has touched on the
most telling aspect of the Middle Platonic tradition, i.e., the incorporation of
an instrumental cause. It is intriguing that the Prologue of John uses the
terminus technicus for the Platonic tradition in assigning the role of
instrumentality to the Logos.
Light versus Darkness. The final element that we will mention is the con-
trast between light and darkness. The introduction of light and darkness in
the Prologue of John within a series of statements drawn from Genesis 1,
suggests that Genesis 1:3–5 lay behind these statements, especially since
light and darkness are important elements in the first day of creation. It is
important to note two points about the treatment in the Prologue. The
evangelist has associated the Logos with light.46 The sharp contrast
between light and darkness is probably grounded in the statement: ‘God
divided between the light and the darkness’ (Genesis 1:4). The evangelist
has, however, given the cosmological statement in Genesis a moral
dimension: light and darkness are two opposing moral spheres: the Logos
is associated with light and is opposed by darkness. The use of light and
darkness as opposites is common to many traditions, including the Platonic.
The important point to note at present is that the Prologue has based the
contrast on Genesis 1:4.
46 A lengthy study of the Platonic background of light in John has just appeared: G. H.
van Kooten, ‘The ‘True Light Which Enlightens Everyone’ (John 1:9): John, Genesis, the
Platonic Notion of the ‘True, Noetic Light,’ and the Allegory of the Cave in Plato’s
Republic,’ in G. H. van Kooten (ed.), The Creation of Heaven and Earth: Re-interpretations
of Genesis 1 in the Context of Judaism, Ancient Philosophy, Christianity, and Modern
Physics, Themes in Biblical Narrative, Jewish and Christian Traditions 8 (Leiden/
Boston, 2005) 149-94.
130 gregory e. sterling
There are other points that are worth investigation (the understanding
of ejn ajrch/`), but these are sufficient to illustrate the possibility that Augus-
tine was right about the Platonic nature of the Prologue. The issue that we
now need to address is whether the Prologue could have been influenced
by an exegetical tradition that interpreted Genesis 1:1–5 through a Platonic
perspective. This might help us understand how some of the technical
concerns of Platonism were mediated to the author of the Fourth Gospel
or, at least, to the author of the underlying hymn who does not demon-
strate philosophical sophistication.
apparently unconcerned with the tension that the two schemes created
within a single treatise; his concern was to make the ontological distinction.
It is the first of these two schemas that interests us. Like the Prologue of
John, there is a discrete textual unit devoted to ‘day one,’50 and more im-
portantly, a unit that understood ‘day one’ as the creation of the intelligible
world. Are there similarities in detail between this pre-Philonic tradition
and John 1:1–5? We will take up the same Platonizing hints that we found
in John.
The World of Being versus the World of Becoming. Shortly before he offered
his exposition of day one, Philo introduced his account of creation with
these words: ‘But the great Moses held that the ungenerated (to ajgevnhton)
was totally different from the visible. For the entire sense-perceptible realm
is in the process of becoming (ejn genevsei) and change, never remaining in
the same condition (oujdevpote kata; taujta; o[n).’ This, he stated, formed a
contrast with the incorporeal world: ‘To the invisible and intelligible he
assigned eternity as a sibling and relative, but to the sense-perceptible he
gave the appropriate name, Genesis (gevnesi~).’51 Philo has paraphrased the
famous section of Plato’s Timaeus that we cited above. He returned to this
distinction at the outset of his exposition of day one. In a brief — at least
compared to his treatment of the hebdomad — commentary on ‘one’ he
wrote: ‘For it contains the exquisite intelligible cosmos as the treatise on it
states.’ He explained this terse statement by using the metaphysical catego-
ries of the monad (=the intelligible cosmos created on day one) and the
dyad (=the sense-perceptible cosmos created on the second through sixth
days). ‘For God, being God, assumed that a beautiful copy would never
come into existence apart from a beautiful pattern nor would anything
among the sense-perceptibles be without blemish which was not shaped
with respect to an archetype and intelligible Idea.’ He then applied this to
the cosmos: ‘When he wanted to create this sense-perceptible cosmos, he
first shaped the intelligible so that he could use the incorporeal and most
divine model to make the corporeal (cosmos), a younger copy of the older,
containing as many sense-perceptible kinds as there are intelligible kinds in
the model.’52 These statements are far clearer than those in John, yet they
associate the eternal or intelligible cosmos with day one.
The Logos. The background of Philo’s Logos appears to have some of the
same connections with Genesis as the Prologue of John; however the
1996) 45–78, esp. 61, and D. T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria, On the Creation of the Cosmos
according to Moses, PAC 1 (Leiden, 2001) 19–20, 309–11.
50 Philo, Opif. 15–35; cf. also 36.
51 Philo, Opif. 12. For a detailed treatment see Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the
Timaeus of Plato, 92–111.
52 Philo, Opif. 15–16.
132 gregory e. sterling
sources of influence are much more complex. On what textual grounds did
Philo associate the Logos with the intelligible world? Did he draw on the
refrain ‘and God said’ (kai; ei\pen oJ qeov~)? We know that earlier Jewish
exegetes, such as Aristobulus, played with the phrase ‘and God said’ in
Genesis 1;53 however, Aristobulus did not hypostasize the Logos. Unfortu-
nately, we do not have an extant Philonic commentary on this key phrase
in De opificio mundi, and perhaps that is noteworthy. We do, however, have
an important paraphrase of Genesis 1:3 that makes a connection. In com-
menting on the light of day one, Philo wrote: ‘that invisible and intelligible
light (fw`~) came into existence (gevgonen) as an image of the divine Logos
who interpreted its genesis.’54 The Alexandrian’s phrase ‘light ... came into
existence’ (fw`~ ... gevgonen) is a paraphrase of Genesis 1:3, ‘and light came
into existence’ (kai; fw`~ ejgevneto). His comment that the divine Logos
‘interpreted its genesis’ (qeivou lovgou ... tou` diermhneuvsanto~ th;n gevnesin
auj t ou` ) is probably a play on ‘and God said’ (kai; ei\pen oJ qeov~). The
commentator thus preserved both halves of Genesis 1:3 but reversed them.
In the process, Philo made the ‘invisible and intelligible light’ an image of
the Logos who not only planned the intelligible cosmos, but set out its
genesis. How is this?
Philo provided a hint in a different treatise in which he cited Genesis 1:3
verbatim. In a comment on Genesis 28:11, Philo explained how Jacob could
‘meet a place’ when ‘the sun was set.’ He offered the obvious explanation:
the sun was not the sun in the heavens, but God who is light. He clarified
his allegorical interpretation by appealing to Psalm 26:1 (27:1 MT): ‘the
Lord is my illumination and savior.’ He explained: ‘he is not only light, but
older and higher than every archetype, holding the relationship of the mo-
del ‹of a model›.’55 The model of which God is the model is the Logos: ‘For
the model was the Logos that contains his fullness, namely light, for he said:
‘God said, ‘Let light come into existence.’’’ Philo returned to God to make
the distinction between God and the Logos clear: ‘but he (God) is similar to
none of the things that have come into existence.’ 56 In this text Philo
equated the Logos with intelligible light (not the fullness with light) on the
basis of the statement, ‘and God said: ‘Let light come into existence.’’ The
Logos is the intelligible light from which sense-perceptible light will be
created. 57
How is the Logos a model? The key passage by which Philo associated
the Logos with the intelligible world is Genesis 1:26–27. The Alexandrian
made a distinction between God and the image of God which he under-
stood to be the Logos. In this text, there is a threefold scale: God, the Image
of God or Logos, and humanity. In Philonic thought, humanity is created in
the image of God, i.e., the Logos. He wrote that human beings were
‘stamped according to the image of God. If the part is an image of an
image, it is clear that it is also true of the whole.’ He explained: ‘If this
entire sense-perceptible world — which is greater than a human image —
is a copy of the divine image, it is clear that the archetypal seal, which we
say is the intelligible world, would itself be the Logos of God.’58 For Philo
the Logos was where the world of ideas resided. Genesis 1:26–27 thus
provided the textual warrant for the hypostasization.
Can we make sense of these distinct exegetical treatments? I think that
we can, although we must recognize that we can only offer a reconstruc-
tion of a complex of exegetical traditions. It is likely that a pre-Philonic
exegetical tradition equated the Logos with the phrase ‘and God said.’
There are at least three statements in later targumim that connect the
Memra with Genesis 1:3. For example, the Fragmentary Targum on the
Torah paraphrased Genesis 1:3: ‘And the Memra of the LORD said, ‘Let
there be light.’ And there was light by the Memra.’59 While this evidence is
late, it points to the existence of independent strands of Jewish exegetical
traditions that made the connection between the Logos/Memra and Gene-
sis 1:3. It is probably this tradition, at least in part, that led Philo to speak of
the Logos. Unlike later Aramaic speaking interpreters who spoke of a
the Cosmos according to Moses, 168. He is followed by Leonhardt-Blazer, ‘Der Logos und
die Schöpfung,’ 304.
58 Philo, Opif. 25. Sacr. 8. He is citing Deut 34:5.
59 Frg. Tg. on Gen 1:3 (M. L. Klein, The Fragment Targums of the Pentateuch according to
their Extant Sources, 2 vols., AnBib 76–77 (Rome, 1980) 1.43 [I have given my own
translation; his translation is on 2:3]). See also 1:70 and 2:36 for an alternative version.
Frg. Tg. on Exod 3:14 (Klein 1:164), ‘And the LORD said to Moses, ‘I am who I am.’ And
the Memra of the LORD said to Moses, ‘The one who said to the world, ‘Come into
existence,’ and it came into existence; and who will yet say to it, ‘Come into existence’
and it will come into existence.’ And he said, ‘Say to the children of Israel, I am is the
one who has sent me to you’’ (Klein’s translation is on 2:123). Frg. Tg. on Exod 12:42 (Klein
1: 167): Four night are written in the Book of Memories. With respect to the first night,
when the Memra of the LORD was revealed to the world to create it, the world was
formless and void and darkness extended over the face of the deep. And the Memra of
the LORD was light and illumination. And he called it the first night’ (Klein’s transla-
tion is on 2;126). The most helpful discussion of these texts is Boyarin, ‘The Gospel of the
Memra,’ 252–61, esp. 256–60. Borgen has also appealed to Gen. Rab. 3:3 (Borgen, Philo,
John and Paul, 84), although this text requires a connection between ‘said’ and ‘light’
that these others do not.
134 gregory e. sterling
Memra, Philo thought in Greek terms. The refrain, ‘and God said,’ has a
lexical and conceptual relationship with the Logos. The verb ei\pen (‘said’) is
used as the second aorist of levgw (‘I say’),60 the cognate verb of the noun
lovgo~ (‘speaking, word, assertion, discourse’). Even if Philo did not recog-
nize the linguistic connection between the verb and noun, the conceptual
relation between the refrain ‘and God said’ as the modus operandi of crea-
tion in Genesis 1 and the Logos as the instrument of creation in Philo’s
cosmology, created an open invitation to make the connection. The possi-
bility of grounding a key concept in the biblical narrative was too good to
pass.61 Philo, however, preferred to think of the Logos as the image of God
based on Genesis 1:26–27. While this identification may also be pre-Philonic,
it is Philo’s preferred option.62 In De opificio mundi he gave a fairly full
explanation of Genesis 1:26–27, but omitted Genesis 1:3 except for a brief
paraphrase. In De somniis, he combined the two, although he failed to
resolve all of the tensions between the different traditions. The relevance of
this discussion for the Prologue of John is that it demonstrates the presence
of independent Jewish exegetical traditions that connected Genesis 1:3 with
the Logos or Memra in much the same was as John did.
Prepositional Metaphysics. As we have already noted, Philo knew and used
prepositional metaphysics including the specific phrase that is in the Pro-
logue of John; however, not in his treatment of ‘day one.’ Here, in a
famous image, he assigned the Logos the role of God’s architect or instru-
ment. 63 He used the expression ‘through whom’ (di∆ ou|) in other texts.64
John and Philo shared a common understanding of causes in the Platonic
tradition. While their grasp of the philosophical concepts behind the use of
such phrases would have been quite different, the technical use of the
prepositional phrase to denote instrumental cause became widespread and
did not require technical knowledge.
Light versus Darkness. In his account of creation on day one, Philo
recounted the seven components of the intelligible cosmos, all drawn from
Genesis 1:1–3: heaven, earth, air (=darkness), the void (=abyss), water,
pneuma, and light. Of the latter two he said: ‘he judged pneuma and light
worthy of special privilege. For he named the former ‘pneuma of God’
60 F. Blass, A. Debrunner, A Greek Grammar of the New Testament and Other Early
Christian Literature (trans. R. Funk; Chicago, 1961) §101.
61 So also Runia, Philo of Alexandria, On the Creation of the Cosmos according to Moses,
143 and Leonhardt-Balzer, ‘Der Logos und die Schöpfung,’ 305.
62 A number of interpreters connected Gen 1:3 and 1:26–27, especially early Christian
interpreters. See E. Pagels, ‘Exegesis of Genesis 1 in the Gospels of Thomas and John,’ JBL
118 (1999) 477–96, esp. 484–88.
63 See §§15–25 for the Logos in creation.
64 E.g., Philo, Sacr. 8 and Spec. 1.81.
platonizing exegetical traditions of genesis 1:1-5 135
because the pneuma is most life-giving — and God is the cause of life, while
with respect to light he says that it is exceptionally beautiful.’ He explained:
‘For the intelligible is brighter and more radiant than the visible to the
same extent, I suppose, that the sun is than darkness, day than night, and
mind, the ruler of the entire soul, than the body.’ He added: ‘That invisible
and intelligible light came into existence as a image of the divine Logos
who interpreted its genesis.’65 Following his exegesis of light, Philo turned
to darkness: ‘after the shining out of intelligible light which came into exist-
ence before the sun, the opponent, darkness, withdrew.’ He understood
evening and dawn to be barriers that God put between light and darkness
as a way of keeping two perpetual antagonists separated: ‘For God separa-
ted them from one another with a wall and kept them apart knowing their
opposite natures and the conflict that arises from their natures.’ 66 The
similarities between the Fourth Gospel and Philo are noteworthy.67 Both
understood the Logos to be light. Both grounded their understanding of
light and darkness as moral opposites in their interpretation of Genesis 1:4.
While a Christian reading the Fourth Gospel might think of the shining and
conflict in temporal rather than eternal terms, i.e., anticipating the incarna-
tion, this would require a proleptic reading of John. The text can be read
without the incarnation in the same way as the texts in Philo.
2. 2 Enoch 24.2–26.3
The identification of such Platonic concepts in Philo is hardly a surprise.
There is at least one other text where the same Platonizing tradition does
surprise us, 2 Enoch. The apocalyptic seer of 2 Enoch shared the perspective
of two worlds: an invisible world from which the visible world came. 68 The
seer presented the act of creation in these words: ‘And I thought up the
idea of establishing a foundation, to create a visible creation.’69 The striking
feature of this statement is the understanding of a conceptual model or
plan by which God created the world. It presents God in the role of an
architect who first thinks of the design and then builds the structure. The
plan is the invisible and the structure the visible. The contrast between the
two is not accidental: the author of 2 Enoch spoke of bringing the visible
65 Philo, Opif. 29–31. For details see Runia, Philo of Alexandria, On the Creation of the
Cosmos according to Moses, 163–73.
66 Philo, Opif. 32–33.
67 The most helpful treatments on light and darkness in Philo and John are Tobin, ‘The
Prologue of John and Hellenistic Jewish Speculation,’ 262–65; Borgen, Philo, John and
Paul, 83–92; and Leonhardt-Balzer, ‘Der Logos und die Schöpfung,’ 314–15.
68 For a broad treatment of the creation accounts in 2 Enoch see Endo, Creation and
Christology, 19–24 and 60–65, esp. 22 and 62.
69 2 Enoch 24.5 (J and A [OTP 1.142–43]).
136 gregory e. sterling
70 2 Enoch 24.2 (J); 48.5 (A [in J God is invisible and what he creates is visible]). The
apocalyptic seer mentioned ‘visible’ and ‘invisible’ in 51:5 (J) and 65:1 (J and A).
71 For a more thorough treatment see my ‘Recherché or Representative? What is the
Relationship between Philo’s Treatises and Greek-speaking Judaism?,’ SPhA 11 (1999)
8–10.
72 Philo, Opif. 17–19.
73 Gen. Rab. 1:1 (Jacob Neusner, Genesis Rabbah, The Judaic Commentary to the Book of
Genesis (A New American Translation) [3 vols.; BJS 104–06; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985]
1.1–2).
74 E. E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs (2 vols.; Jerusalem: Magnes Press,
1987) 1:198–202, accentuated the difference between the two. D. T. Runia, on the other
hand, has repeatedly argued that Hoshaya drew his imagery from Philo via Origen.
See his ‘Polis and Megalopolis: Philo and the Founding of Alexandria,’ Mnenosyne 42
(1989) 410–12; idem, Philo in Early Christian Literature (CRINT 3.3; Assen: Van Gorcum/
Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993) 14; and idem, Philo of Alexandria, On the Creation of the
Cosmos according to Moses, 154–55.
75 M. Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (New York/
Oxford, 1993) 84–86.
platonizing exegetical traditions of genesis 1:1-5 137
begins with light and then moves to darkness, using the pattern of creation
by fiat in Genesis one to narrate their origins. So, for example, God said:
‘Let one of the invisible things descend visibly!’ And, just as there was a
fulfillment in Genesis 1:3, so there is in 2 Enoch: ‘And Adoil descended,
extremely large.’ The apocalyptic seer elaborated with a second step: ‘And
I looked at him, and behold, in his belly he had a great light. And I said to
him, ‘Disintegrate yourself, Adoil, and let what is born from you become
visible.’ And he disintegrated himself, and there came out a very great
light.’ God then reflected: ‘And I was in the midst of the great light. And
light out of light is carried thus. And the great age came out, and it revealed
all the creation which I had thought up to create.’ The purpose of the light
was thus to illuminate the invisible world, presumably to make it possible
to proceed with creation. The seer then returned to the biblical text: ‘And I
saw how good it was’ (Genesis 1:4). God then sat down on his throne and
said to the light: ‘You go up higher, and be solidified, and become the foun-
dation for the highest things.’ This is apparently related to the separation
of light from darkness in the creation account of Genesis 1:4. The account
concludes: ‘And there is nothing higher than the light, except nothing itself.
And again I bowed myself, and I looked upward from my throne.’76 The
seer worked through the same procedure for the creation of darkness.77
The longer version of 2 Enoch goes on to explain the separation of light
from darkness by the creation of water which is understood as darkness
wrapped around with light. The water is below the light but above the
darkness. Within it are seven circles that have a planet each.78
Although the account uses a mythological cosmogony, it associated the
attempt to bridge the invisible world in which God moved prior to creation
with the world of creation by developing elements in the account of day
one in Genesis 1. In this way 2 Enoch appears to reflect the exegetical tradi-
tion attested in Philo that day one represents the intelligible or invisible
world. It differs from Philo by including elements of the visible world on
day one, i.e., the light becomes visible light and the darkness visible dark-
ness on day one in 2 Enoch. This is hardly a surprise: 2 Enoch may know
some Platonizing exegetical traditions, but it does not demonstrate direct
familiarity with Platonic thought. It does demonstrate the uniqueness of
day one: it is the only day associated with the connection between the
invisible and the visible.79
76 2 Enoch 25:1–5 (J ). A is the shorter recension. It differs mainly by having ‘age’ for
‘light’ until God speaks to it when it is identified as light. I have omitted the supple-
mentary readings in R and P that Andersen includes in his translation in OTP.
77 2 Enoch 26:1–3 (J and A).
78 2 Enoch 27:1–4 (J).
79 2 Enoch 28:1–30:18 (J). The text mentions that humanity is created out of both the
138 gregory e. sterling
Conclusions
What strikes me about the treatment of Genesis 1:1–5 in John, Philo, and 2
Enoch is that all identify ‘day one’ with the eternal, intelligible, or invisible
world. The differences in the three texts suggest that they made independ-
ent use of a common tradition, although I would not rule out the possibility
that the author of 2 Enoch knew Philo’s De opificio mundi. If I may speculate
about the history of this tradition, I suggest that at some point in Alexan-
dria immediately prior to or contemporary with Philo, a Platonizing Jewish
exegete began to explain the differences between day one and the later
days by drawing the line of demarcation between the eternal and the
temporal or the intelligible and the sense-perceptible worlds between day
one and the second through the sixth days. This not only solved the puzzle
about the shift from the cardinal ‘one’ to the ordinals ‘second through
sixth,’ but also removed the tension between the presence of intelligible
light on day one and the sense-perceptible lights on the fourth day. Philo
incorporated the tradition in De opificio mundi. The Jewish community that
produced and read 2 Enoch also knew this tradition.
The tradition appears to have been transmitted to later Christians large-
ly although perhaps not exclusively through the works of Philo. Pseudo-
Justin appears to know a form of this tradition, although the Christian
apologist drew the line between the intelligible and the sense-perceptible
worlds between Genesis 1:1 and 2: the sense-perceptible world was the
earth that God created (Gen 1:1) and the intelligible world was the ‘invis-
ible and unshaped’ earth (Gen 1:2). Pseudo-Justin has thus drawn on the
Platonic tradition, but not understood Genesis 1:1–5 as a unit.80 Clement of
Alexandria knew the Philonic tradition and the distinction between the
creation of the intelligible world on day one and the sense-perceptible
world on the second and following days.81 Not surprisingly, Origen knew
the same tradition and, like Clement, probably became acquainted with it
through the works of Philo.82 Eusebius appears to have known the
tradition as well, perhaps from the Philonic works that Origen brought to
invisible and the visible (30:10), but does not again speak of the invisible world out of
which God created the visible.
80 Pseudo-Justin, Cohortatio ad Gentiles 30.1–3. For details see Runia, Philo in Early
Christian Literature, 187–88.
81 Clement, Strom. 5.93.4–94.2. A. van den Hoek, Clement of Alexandria and His Uses of
Philo in the Stromateis: An Early Christian Shaping of a Jewish Model, VCSup3 (Leiden,
1988) 196, wrote: ‘The whole passage is scarcely intelligible without Philo in the
background.’
82 Origen, Hom. Gen. 1.2. On this text see A. van den Hoek, ‘Philo and Origen: A De-
scriptive Catalogue of their Relationship,’ SPhA 12 (2000) 65. For a broader treatment
see Runia, Philo in Early Christian Literature, 173.
platonizing exegetical traditions of genesis 1:1-5 139
Caesarea or through Origen’s own work.83 The tradition even made its
way to Augustine who drew from it to explain ‘the heaven of heaven’
(caelum caeli).84
The author of the hymn that stands behind the Prologue of John knew
this tradition and some of the specific Platonizing exegetical moves that
became attached to it. The first two strophes of the hymn are directly
indebted to this tradition. In fact, they appear to be a relatively faithful
representation of the tradition. The author of the hymn assumed that the
implied readers/hearers knew the same Platonizing Jewish exegetical
tradition of ‘day one.’ The exegetical tradition would have enabled the
hearer to situate the opening strophes of the hymn within a much more
elaborate intellectual framework that would have provided breadth and
depth to the hymn’s laconic lines. We can only speculate about how this
exegetical tradition came to this early Christian author and community.
The most probable source is synagogue instruction. This would not be the
only example in the Fourth Gospel of the author’s and implied readers’
familiarity with a synagogue homily or instruction.85
How would Philo have reacted to these two strophes? While the
concepts are not identical to Philo’s, I do not think that the Alexandrian
would have objected to the first five verses of John. The content of these
verses are fully intelligible within Judaism, especially a form of Judaism that
operated within a Platonic framework.86 The objections would have come
when the Prologue affirmed that the eternal entered the temporal in the
form of a human being. This is the distinctive Christian element. Philo
would have been pleased as long as the eagle of John soared in the heavens
on the basis of ‘day one’ in Genesis; it is only when he is said to have come
down to earth on the basis of Christian experience that the Alexandrian
would have demurred.
REVIEW ARTICLE
held on 1–4 May 2003, were Karl-Wilhelm Niebuhr and Roland Deines
from the University of Jena. The conference took place, however, at Eisen-
ach, in the shadow of the famous Wartburg, where Luther worked on his
Bible translation. The location was surely fitting, for since the war German
Philonic studies has been carried out mainly in the area of theology and
biblical studies by scholars connected to Protestant and Catholic faculties.
The present conference shared this same background. The theme of the
conference was Philo and the New Testament and it was organized as the
First International Symposium of the Corpus Judaeo-Hellenisticum Novi
Testamenti (CJHNT). Since 1997 the research project with the same title has
been carried out in Jena under the leadership of Prof. Niebuhr, with Dr.
Deines as its chief researcher. With exemplary speed the two scholars have
now published the proceedings of the conference as part of the well-known
series Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament.5 All
Philonists should be grateful to them, for it means that those who were
unable to attend are now in a position to read the papers presented at the
conference for themselves. They can discover what the latest scholarly
status quaestionis is on the relation between Philo and the New Testament
writings that were written in the half century after his death, particularly as
seen in the context of German scholarship. Fourteen of the papers are by
scholars working in Germany, the other eight by scholars who came from
abroad. This also largely determines the language of publication, with
thirteen papers in German, the remainder in English.
Before I proceed to discuss the papers that have now been published,
some more needs to be said about the project that sponsored the con-
ference. For nearly a hundred years attempts have been made to produce a
‘new Wettstein’, i.e. a modern source-book that will give a collection of
both Greco-Roman and Jewish materials for the study of the New Testa-
ment which builds on and expands the great work produced by Julius
Wettstein (1693–1754). Since the Second World war there has been a
division between the Greco-Roman and the Judaeo-Hellenistic sides of the
project, the former being carried out mainly in Utrecht, the latter remaining
in Germany. The aim of the German project, as we can read in the
Introduction to the volume, is the ‘presentation of early Jewish witnesses
total about 12 scholars, including Traugott Holtz, Gerhard Delling and Harald Heger-
mann. The authors regret that they did not include this information on the history of
Philonic research in the volume and ask me to mention it in this article.
5 R. Deines, and K.-W. Niebuhr (edd.), Philo und das Neue Testament: Wechselseitige
Wahrnehmungen. 1. Internationales Symposium zum Corpus Judaeo-Hellenisticum Novi
Testamenti (Eisenach/Jena, Mai 2003), Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen
Testament 172 (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck 2004). xxiii and 435 pages. ISBN 3-16-148396-0.
Price €94.
review article: philo in germany 143
The first of the three papers giving an overview of the subject was by
Gregory Sterling, co-editor of this Journal. His paper is entitled ‘The Place
of Philo of Alexandria in the Study of Christian Origins’. Sterling is positive
and optimistic in his approach. Although he is convinced that there are no
direct connections between Philo and the New Testament, he nevertheless
144 david t. runia
argues that there are many traditions which they share. Philo is not as
isolated within Judaism as we might think. At least two Jewish authors are
demonstrably dependent on him, Josephus and the author of 2 Enoch.
Others share traditions with him. Philo was also known to a number of
pagan intellectuals. As for New Testament writers, Sterling focuses on four
texts where he detects the use of Platonizing traditions reminiscent of what
we find in Philo: the Corinthian correspondence, Hebrews, Luke-Acts and
the Gospel of John. He is particularly intrigued by the correspondences
between Philo’s exegesis of Gen. 1:1–5 and the use made of the same
passage by the Evangelist in John 1:1–5. Is it not likely that they shared the
same Platonizing tradition? This hypothesis needs to be worked out in
more detail.6 In short, Sterling argues that Philo’s treatises fill some of the
gaps left by the New Testament documents. The extent to which this
happens depends on our view of Philo’s place in Judaism. The conference
could not have got off to a more positive start.
George Nickelsburg’s paper on Philo among Greeks, Jews and Chris-
tians was given at Jena during the conference and is aimed at a more gene-
ral audience. Its most interesting aspect is the rather startling comparison
he makes between Philo and the eighteenth century Jewish philosopher
Moses Mendelssohn. Although their background was dissimilar — Men-
delssohn grew up in poverty not far from Jena and came into prominence
through his sheer brilliance — they represent the same cultural pheno-
menon, combining loyalty to Judaism with the willingness to immerse
themselves in the dominant culture of their time. In placing Philo in the
context of his Judaism, Nickelsburg reminds us that philosophy was not the
only form of speculative intellectual activity at that time. He notes how
aspects of wisdom speculation also appear in the apocalyptic collection of
1 Enoch. Its authors were not philosophers in any sense of the term, but
‘their blending of cosmological and theological speculation with ethical
imperatives and critiques does present a parallel to the philosophical
enterprise and the comparison of these two phenomena of the Hellenistic
period is a topic worth pursuing’ (p. 67).
The title of the third of the general papers, by Larry Hurtado, homes in
on the main theme of the conference: ‘Does Philo help explain early Chris-
tianity?’ The answer he gives is Solomonic, yes or no depending on what
one means in asking the question. If it is taken in the strong aetiological
sense, it has to be answered in the negative. We do not find in Philo’s
writings anything that indicates the impetus for or the cause of central
features of earliest Christianity. There is ‘nothing peculiarly Philonic’ in any
of the New Testament writings (p. 75, his emphasis). On the other hand,
Hurtado regards Philo as the single most important Jewish writer for
understanding the Jewish religious setting for the beginnings of Christian-
ity (p. 74, again his emphasis), especially in its expression outside Palestine.
So in this sense the answer must be yes. The remainder of the paper is
structured along these no and yes lines. First he proceeds to illustrate his
position in relation to the thought of Paul, the Gospel of John and Hebrews.
In a footnote to p. 79 we get a fascinating glimpse of a discussion at the
conference. Greg Sterling argued that the particular combination of
Platonic and Jewish motifs in Philo made his writings especially significant
for understanding Hebrews with its somewhat similar complex of motifs
and conceptual categories. On the basis of the footnote, I reconstruct that
Hurtado did not disagree with this, provided that the emphasis fell on
understanding rather than on explaining in the hard sense that the writer
of Hebrews actually took material directly from Philo. With regard to his
context in Judaism Hurtado emphasizes that he does reflect the wider
Jewish experience in the Diaspora and is not just a kind of Alexandrian
‘freak’ (my term). But as such he is a witness rather than an innovator,
trying to bolster up Judaism rather than take it in novel directions. This is
shown in the final part of the essay where Hurtado takes two key distin-
guishing features of early Christianity, its gentile mission and its devotion
to Jesus, and argues that Philo would have been opposed to both. Moses
was for Philo the supreme example of what a human being could attain
and in this sense was a ‘divine man’, but this kind of language cannot
provide a bridge to what happens to Jesus in the New Testament writings.
Further examination of this question would have taken the paper into the
area of the doctrine of the Logos, which Hurtado does not pursue. All in all
his paper reveals an exemplary combination of judicious argument and
informed discussion. It is, in my view, one of the highlights of the book.
Next we come to the six pairs of articles on common themes. As the editors
admit, the coverage they provide is imperfect. It would have been good if a
pair had examined material from the Gospels. But the first pair starts with
comparisons between Acts and Philo’s In Flaccum. In this pair, as elsewhere,
we get an intriguing dialectic involving both similarity and difference. The
comparison can go either way. Pieter van der Horst concludes that Philo
and Luke lived in the same world and that they had both a common
language and a common conceptual framework. The emphasis thus falls on
similarity. Friedrich Avemarie dwells more on the differences. For example,
the In Flaccum recounts real violence, in Acts there is just minor unpleasant-
ness. Philo’s account only moves to Rome in order to explain what is
happening in Alexandria, but the events recorded involve the Roman
146 david t. runia
authorities up the highest level, including the Emperor himself, and are
interpreted as the work of divine providence itself. In Luke there is a
triumphalist movement from Jerusalem through Asia Minor to Rome, but
the Roman officials involved are on the periphery of the action and no
theological role is ascribed to them.
Three of the pairs deal with aspects of the Pauline legacy in relation to
Philo. The first focuses on 1 Cor. 15. Here the dialectic is between a con-
structive and a restrictive approach. In a highly original paper David Hay
first suggests that an examination of the spirituality of the Therapeutae can
shed significant light on Philo’s rather abstruse exegesis of Gen. 1 and 2 in
terms of a double creation of humanity. In a sense the life of the soul that
the community practises can be read as a kind of ‘nearly realized escha-
tology’ (p. 140). Although no direct historical link can be established, there
are parallels between Paul’s affirmations in 1 Cor. 15:44–49 and Philo’s
interpretation of the double creation of humanity, just as there are between
the Corinthians that Paul is addressing and Philo’s Therapeutae. So reading
Philo’s treatises can help us understand the kind of spiritual problems that
Paul was attempting to address. Berndt Schaller, whose paper is dedicated
to the memory of the Australian New Testament scholar John O’Neill,
adopts a more restrictive or perhaps even positivistic approach. Its full title
already indicates this: ‘Adam and Christ in Paul. Or: About use and misuse
of Philo in New Testament research’ (my translation of the German). He
cannot agree with the long tradition starting with Grotius and continuing
up to the 1986 Habilitationsschrift of Gerhard Sellin, that Philo’s statement
about the two kinds of human beings at Leg. 1.31 is the key to under-
standing Paul’s statements at 1 Cor. 15:44–49. There are two main differ-
ences. Paul sees no distinction between the two human beings created in
Gen. 1:26 and Gen. 2:7, whereas Philo does. More importantly the pneu-
matic human being is never identified with the first human being, but the
latter is linked with the ‘earthly Adam’ of Gen. 2:7. This argument is,
however, not as strong as Schaller thinks it is, because the phrase ı pr«tow
ênyrvpow is used by Philo in the Exposition of the Law and the Quaestiones,
but not in the Allegorical Commentary which furnished the point of
comparison.
The next pair covers rather similar ground, but concentrates on the first
four chapters of 1 Corinthians and the link that scholars have seen between
Paul’s depiction of the Apollos faction of the Corinthian community and
Alexandrian Judaism as represented by Philo. Directing his paper explicitly
against the work of Gerhard Sellin, Dieter Zeller argues that Philo doubtless
saw the ênyrvpow yeoË as quite exceptional, particularly in the case of Mo-
ses, but that it remains difficult to conclude that the wise person occupies
review article: philo in germany 147
the same place as the Logos or is to be seen as identical to him. The texts
required to establish this are simply lacking. Zeller is also sceptical about
the soteriological role attributed to the same figure. In response we get a
spirited reply by Sellin himself. It depends, he argues, on what we
understand under ‘identity’. Both in Philo and in the New Testament the
concept of the Logos is really a ‘bundle of metaphors’ (p. 172). But Sellin
remains convinced that the Philonic concept of the Logos has left traces in
the New Testament, if not in Paul himself, then certainly elsewhere, in
Colossians, the Prologue of John and — as he continues to insist — what
we can reconstruct of the Corinthian opponents of Paul. I believe that
Zeller has the better of the argument, but readers need to study the papers
and reach their own verdict.
The next pair homes in on the use of mystery language in Philo and
Paul. Naomi Cohen asks what Philo means when he uses the vocabulary of
the mysteries. She concludes that this terminology, which is less frequent
than one might think, reflects metaphors of speech. More importantly, she
shows that, when Philo enunciates the key doctrines of his thought, more
often than not mystery language is not used, so that he can hardly have
regarded them as ‘mysteries’ in the technical sense. This result conforms to
recent trends in Philonic research, and it is a pity that Cohen does not
engage this literature. But we may expect her to do so in her coming book,
of which this paper is a preview and which is eagerly awaited. The corre-
sponding paper by Bernhard Heininger makes a fascinating and highly
instructive comparison between the accounts of the ascent of soul, in Paul’s
2 Cor. 12:2–4 and Philo’s Spec. 3.1–6. He concludes that it is not helpful to
label these accounts ‘mystical ecstasy’, but they are also not just ‘mystical
clichés’. For Philo they have primarily an hermeneutical function, whereas
the key characteristic of Paul’s description is restraint. Heininger is
prepared to conclude that both had similar experiences, but that the process
of putting them into words leads to very different results. In both cases we
know the existence of their experiences, but their essence remains concealed
behind the traditional nature of speech.
The next pair of papers focuses on the famous text at 2 Tim. 3:16 that ‘all
scripture is divinely inspired’. Folker Siegert begins with some interesting
observations on the phrase ‘holy scriptures’ in Philo. The Director of the
Institutum Judaicum Delitzschianum in Münster likes to make bold asser-
tions and this paper is no exception. He declares that Philo was the first to
hypostasize the Mosaic law as a monolithic whole removed from any
historicity. Indeed ‘from the formal point of view the Koran as a text that
fell from heaven and regarded as an immutable text is closer to Philo’s
conception [than the NT canon]’ (p. 208). He sharply rejects Burkhardt’s
148 david t. runia
The final section of the volume is entitled ‘Philonic readings’ and presents
three papers based on the results of a number of workshops which
engaged in close reading of some passages in the Exposition of the Law
and the Life of Moses. Naturally I was most intrigued to read the paper by
Jutta Leonhardt–Balzer on the well-known passage Opif. 15–25, part of
Philo’s exposition of the creation taking place on ‘day one’. Was there
much left to say on this text after my Commentary published in 2001?
Were there things that I got badly wrong? Fortunately the answers to
these questions are yes and no respectively. We are presented with a text
and English translation, based largely on that of Whitaker and my own. It is
a pity that the version of David Winston published in his well-known
Philonic anthology was not taken into account. A mini-commentary on the
text is then presented, followed by some conclusions. The most important
of these is the hypothesis that sections 21–23 show differences in method
and terminology and should be seen as an insert from a different back-
ground into the passage §16–25. There is definite merit in this suggestion,
for the transition from divine Logos to divine Powers in §20 is certainly
rather abrupt. The reason given for the insertion is excellent (p. 333): ‘The
previously used image of the seal and the stamp leave the question of why
God created this copy at all, knowing that it would not be as perfect as the
original. It is to answer this question that Philo turns to the matter of God’s
motive for creating the universe.’ On one issue I would like to make a
point of clarification. On p. 325 we read: ‘The term ‘day one’ is used in this
passage for the first time in Greek philosophy. Runia argues that it must be
based on earlier sources (p. 134), but he does not name any evidence.’ This
remark is based on a misunderstanding. What I wrote was that the term
‘noetic cosmos’ is found here in Greek philosophy for the first time (more
or less: a related term in Timaeus Locrus is probably earlier). The term ‘day
one’ is hardly a philosophical term at all. It is an exegetical concept, which
Philo has related to certain features of the number one developed in Greek
arithmology. Finally I suspect that on p. 343 there is an unfortunate mis-
print. We read ‘He [Philo] does agree with Plato’s view of the ideas as
uncreated.’ I suggest that the word ‘not’ has fallen out here.
In the second reading Rosa Maria Piccione focuses on the description of
Moses’ activity as shepherd in Midian (Mos. 1.60–62). She shows how Philo
was aware that in his description he had to reach out to a wide readership.
For this reason he does not use David as an example, but brings into play
the classical background of Xenophon’s Cyropaedia and its tradition. The
role of shepherd was treated with disdain by many people in the ancient
world, notably in Egypt (cf. Agr. 51), although it was favoured in the Plato-
nic tradition. It certainly contrasts with the conception of the divine king
review article: philo in germany 151
7 There are a number of mistakes in the Greek cited in the text, making it difficult for
the reader to construe in some cases. I note the following: p. 345, end of second line
≤mervtãthw; p. 346 first line Ípobeblhm°nvn; line 6 §reunvm°nƒ; p. 354, second line, colon
after fugÒntew.
8 In an Appendix a paper is included by Martina Böhm which anticipates some of the
results of her soon to be published Habilitationsschrift on the accounts of the Patriarchs
in Philo. She adopts a strongly sceptical position on the question of the extent to which
Philo’s presentation of Abraham can allow a better understanding of the role of the
Patriarch in the New Testament. Biblical exegesis is largely determined by local socio-
cultural concerns. Even in Philo there are marked differences between the three commen-
taries, and often we can only guess at the particular background which they presuppose.
If this position is pursued to its logical conclusion, it not only places a bomb under the
entire CJHNT project, but must also lead to a strong atomization of research results, since
socio-cultural situations are very often sui generis and difficult to reconstruct. The book,
which will take up similar themes to Sandmel’s well-known 1955 monograph, is eagerly
awaited.
152 david t. runia
Queen’s College
The University of Melbourne
The Studia Philonica Annual XVII (2005) 153–160
REVIEW ARTICLE
* Azzan Yadin, Scripture as Logos: Rabbi Ishmael and the Origin of Midrash. University
of Pennsylvania Press: Philadelphia, 2004. 248 pages. ISBN 0-8122-3791-9. Price $44.
1 On these issues, see D. Boyarin, ‘On The Status of Tannaitic Midrashim,’ JAOS 112
(1992) 455–465, and Yadin’s references (pp. 177–178).
2 Thus many scholars prefer the name Tannaitic Midrashim. See, however, n. 21 below.
3 On the comparison between Tannaitic Midrash and the concept of running commentary
in Qumran and Philo, see S. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary: Torah and its
Interpretation in the Midrash Sifre to Deuteronomy (Albany 1991) 1–23.
4 Although the term ‘Midrash’ appears in the Bible, and was already used in Qumran to
describe their interpretive processes, it has become identified especially with rabbinic
interpretive techniques. Thus, we find many titles like ‘Midrash, Mishna and Gemara,’
‘Midrash and Literature,’ ‘the Midrashic Imagination,’ etc.
5 See M. Kahana, ‘New Fragments from the Mekhilta to Deuteronomy’, Tarbiz 54 (1985)
485–551 [Hebrew]; idem, Sifre Zuta on Deuteronomy (Jerusalem 2002) [Hebrew].
6 In his prologue Yadin clarifies (pp. xi–xii) that the name ‘R. Ishmael’ in the book
refers to a group of compositions, not to the historical figure. He does, however, compare
154 ishay rosen-zvi
his textual findings to traditions ascribed to, or relating to R. Ishmael, the sage. For
example, his lack of extra-biblical traditions (p. 145) or his alleged priestly origin
(p. 166).
7 This seems to be the most common characterization of this school. See among others,
J. N. Epstein, Prolegomena to Tannaitic Literature (Tel Aviv 1957) 521–536 [Hebrew]; A. J.
Heschel, Theology of Ancient Judaism, vol. 1 (London and New York 1962) 3–23 [Hebrew];
Kahana, Sifre Zuta, 82–84 [Hebrew].
8 Kahana op. cit. 83 and n.20. See also Yadin’s debate with J. Neusner in chap. 6.
review article: joining the club 155
9 Yadin (p. 94) mentions two books in this context: Susan Hendelman’s The Slayers of Mo-
ses (Albany 1982) and Hartman and Budick’s Midrash and Literature (New Haven 1986).
10 See for example Yadin’s references to James Kugel (p. 55) and to David Stern (p. 61).
11 On J. N. Epstein and the establishment of ‘The Institute of Jewish Studies’ in the
Hebrew University in the 1920‘s see D. Myers, Reinventing the Jewish Past: European
Jewish Intellectuals and the Zionist Return to History (Oxford 1995). For two reflections on
this school, from within and from without respectively, see: M. Kahana, ‘T h e
Academica Talmudic Research and the Traditional Study in the Yeshiva’, M. Kahana
(ed.), Bechevlei Masoret U-Tmura (Jerusalem 1990) 113–142; M. Halbertal, ‘D a v i d
Hartman and the Philosophy of Halakhah’, in A. Sagi and Z. Zoher (edd.), Renewing
Jewish Commitment (Tel Aviv 2001) 13–35 [Hebrew].
12 See M. Kahana, ‘Midrashei Halakhah’, in S. Safrai (ed.), The Literature of The
Sages, Second Part, Philadelphia (forthcoming). A short summary of the development of
scholarship on Midrash can be found in his The Mechiltot On The Amalek Portion
(Jerusalem 1999) 15–19 [Hebrew].
13 This is, of course, a rough generalization and exceptions to the rule do exist in both
camps. See Yadin’s own reference to several precedents to his work on pp. ix and 10.
156 ishay rosen-zvi
the study of Qumranic literature, despite the similar linguistic and textual
difficulties that it presents, has seen a course of development over the last
half of century quite different from that of Tannaitic Midrash.
In light of the prevalent disconnection between the related disciplines,
Yadin’s book represents a major accomplishment. By posing new ques-
tions and employing under-utilized hermeneutical tools,20 Yadin not only
rethinks some of the most basic questions of Midrash as interpretation, but
he is also able to connect, maybe for the first time, the study of the legal
Midrashim to the broader discussions of ancient Jewish hermeneutics. The
legal material, which stood undoubtedly at the center of the Tannaitic
intellectual endeavor,21 can, at last, join the larger family of ancient Jewish
hermeneutics.
Using close textual readings, Yadin develops his broad thesis regarding
R. Ishmael’s idea of reading as total submission to scripture: ‘No inde-
pendent interpreter, the reader carries out the exegetic instructions already
inscribed in the text’ (p. 83). The thesis is elaborated gradually in a well-
structured argument over the course of the first part of the book: moving
from terminology to textual ideology and then to the specific interpretive
practices that result.22 In the last two chapters, Yadin moves from the
textual reasoning itself to a historical reconstruction of its context: what
could be the possible background for such an extreme personalization of
scripture as the sole authority and ultimate teacher? R. Ishmael’s school, he
suggests, is part of a priestly tradition — found also in Qumran, Ben Sira
and later in Targum Pseudo-Jonathan — which looks to scripture as the
central authority while marginalizing any extra-scriptural traditions.
Following E. E. Urbach, Yadin opposes this priestly tradition with the
Pharisees’ ‘paradosis tôn paterôn’ whose legacy is to be found in the legal
traditions (Halakhot) of R. Akiva’s Mishna and Midrashim (pp. 166–168).
20 See especially his discussion of ‘hermeneutic holism’ in the introduction, and his
usage of ‘markedness’ in Chapter Three.
21 Although the Tannaitic Midrashim contain a significant amount of non-legal
material, it is the legal parts that stand at its center, as can be shown — at least on the
level of compilation — from the fact that the Midrashim to Exodus and Numbers both
begin with the first legal section in the books. Indeed, the book of Genesis does not have
any early Midrashic compilation, probably due to its lack of legal material. Only later
rabbinic compositions dedicate themselves fully to Aggadic materials.
22 Yadin ties the different chapters into a coherent, progressive narrative by using a
dialectical model in which the ‘ideal of scriptural self-interpretation’ meets the reality
of ‘the persistent need for an interpreter,’ thus creating all kinds of compromises and
compensations (p. 80). Brilliant as it is, this unified narrative seems, at times, a little
too neat. See, for example, Yadin’s account of the rule ‘no punishment from logical
argument’ which, to my mind, seems forced (pp. 83–86).
158 ishay rosen-zvi
Here, however, one feels that the work is only just begun:23 mainly because
the opposition that Yadin builds between R. Ishmael’s Midrashim and the
Sifra24 does not cover the complexity of the relationships between Midrash
and Tradition, or, better put, between the Oral and Written Torah in
Tannaitic Literature and even in the Mishna itself.25
Much of Yadin’s conclusions are based on an analysis of Midrashic
terminology and specific idioms characterizing R. Ishmael’s Midrashim. So,
for example, in the first chapter, he makes an astute distinction between
two terms that the Midrashim use to denote scripture: Torah and Ha-katuv.
After studying various appearances of this word pair, he comes to the
following conclusion: ‘the distinction between torah and ha-katuv is not
merely stylistic but rather a sustained and consistent rhetorical strategy
aimed at establishing two distinct personifications. TORAH is figured
almost exclusively as a speaker of scriptural passages […] while HA-
KATUV is part of the midrashic give-and-take […] HA-KATUV is pre-
sented as an active teacher that employs a wide range of interpretive
techniques’ (p. 32). Midrash scholars cannot fail to notice the novelty of
such an analysis, not only in the specific conclusion that Yadin reaches, but,
first and foremost, in the ingenious method that he employs to deduce
hermeneutical ideologies from simple terminological distinctions.26 Here,
however, lies a methodological problem that must be engaged. How
literally should we take the midrashic terminology? What are we to do
23 As Yadin himself notes, thus promising to dedicate an independent study to this issue
(p. 151). As far as I know, this study is indeed well on its way.
24 One of the latest Tannaitic Midrashim, which functions as a systematic, Midrashic
grounding of the laws of the Mishna to an extent unparalleled even in R. Akiva’s
Midrashim. Moreover, as M. Kahana has recently shown (Sifre Zuta 109–110),
R. Akiva’s Midrashim, unlike R. Ishmael’s, do not belong to one unified school, but to
various schools all identified with R. Akiva: a fact which proves, according to Kahana,
the dominance of Akiva’s school in the late Tannaitic period.
25 For even the Mishna, supposedly the purest manifestation of Rabbi Akiva’s Oral-
Torah ideology, includes hundreds of Derashot and biblical proof texts. Scholars have
begun only recently to discuss the question of the relationships between the two Torot —
between Midrash and Halakhah — from perspectives other than purely developmental,
diachronic ones (as in Urbach’s paper discussed by Yadin, p. 167–168). See, most recently,
H. Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple
Judaism (Leiden 2003) 108–137.
26 It seems to me, however, that a basic distinction is somewhat overlooked here:
TORAH refers usually to the Pentateuch in general or at least to one of its books, while
HA-KATUV refers always to a specific verse. This distinction might account for some of
the differences between the two terms described in the book: scripture is but a container of
verses (thus it always ‘speaks verses’ as Yadin notes), while HA-KATUV, the specific
verse under discussion, is the active player, teaching us new Halakhot (otherwise the
verse would have been redundant and unnecessary, as the common opening question ‘why
is it stated’ [?rmaˆ hml ] indicates).
review article: joining the club 159
with idioms like: ‘Ha-katuv came and drew an analogy’ (çyqhˆ bˆtkh ab) or
‘we have heard [from scripture] the penalty’ (wn[mç çnw[)? Does the homilist
simply hear, or believe he hears, scripture teaching? Does scripture really
draw analogies for him? How are we to move from this highly formalized
and ‘frozen’ language to textual conceptions and ideologies? The book
lacks any explicit methodological discussion of the issue, leaving us with a
largely un-problematized27 deduction from terminology to ideology.28
Here is one example: the Sifre on Numbers, while discussing the legal
right of husband and father to annul a woman’s vow, says: ‘You are
compelled to draw an analogy from the father to the husband’ and vice
versa (p. 81); from this phrase Yadin concludes: ‘The ‘compulsion’ to draw
the analogy shifts the interpretative agency to the biblical text, so that,
ultimately, heqqesh [analogy — I.R.] is generated by the biblical text, not the
reader’ (p. 82). But how seamlessly can we move from the rhetoric of
Midrash to the ‘implicit fore-understanding of Torah’ or to ‘rabbinic ideas
about scripture’(p. 10)? Can this idiom directly teach us about the ‘thor-
oughly textual determination’ of interpretation according to R. Ishmael,
and his ‘scripture centered ideology?’ In a short paper, Moshe Halbertal
analyzes the midrashic idiom ‘If it were not a written verse it could not be
said’ (wdlrl rçpa ya bwtk arqm almla), 29 which appears a few times in
Tannaitic Midrashim to introduce exceptionally daring theological state-
ments. Despite the explicit statement, Halbertal shows that in almost all
cases in which this idiom is employed, there is actually no ‘written’ verse
compelling the homilist to say what he says. Thus, we must take the idiom
as a rhetorical apology, justifying and neutralizing daring religious
statements, rather than taking it at face value and mistakenly claiming that
the homilist regards scripture as the sole source of his theological
innovations.
27 Sifre Numbers 118 (cited and discussed by Yadin on pp. 89–92) provides a clear
example of the difficulty in deducing ideological conclusions from Midrashic idioms:
R. Akiva (!) is cited as saying ‘HA-KATUV came and drew analogy’ but when R. Yosi
replies to him he says ‘My master, YOU draw an analogy’. If we would not claim that
this is an intentional rephrasing (which seems unlikely here), we would have to
conclude that these terms are interchangeable, at least in this context.
28 Yadin’s conceptualization of ‘rhetorical self-justification’ in Midrash serve him
mainly to distinguish it from ‘actual interpretive practices’ (p. 4; see n. 22 above) but not,
as one would expect, from ‘rabbinic ideas about scripture.’ Indeed, when referring to R.
Akiva’s midrashic ideology in Chapter Seven, Yadin is much more willing to interpret
the references to scripture as rhetorical devices of justification rather than a simple
indication of the ideology of submission.
29 M. Halbertal, ‘If it were not a written verse it could not be said’, Tarbiz 68 (1998) 39–59
[Hebrew].
160 ishay rosen-zvi
BIBLIOGRAPHY SECTION
PHILO OF ALEXANDRIA
AN ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY 2002
D. T. Runia, E. Birnbaum, K. A. Fox, A. C. Geljon, H. M. Keizer,
J. P. Martín, R. Radice, J. Riaud, D. Satran, G. Schimanowski,
T. Seland
2002*
R. Abush, ‘Eunuchs and Gender Transformation: Philo’s Exegesis of the
Joseph Narrative’, in S. Tougher (ed.), Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond
(London 2002) 103–121.
The article examines Philo’s interpretation of Joseph in order to gain a better
understanding of his views on gender relations, castration, eunuchism and circumcision.
Philo’s views of gender relations are complex because views on the differences between
* This bibliography has been prepared by the members of the International Philo
Bibliography Project, under the leadership of D. T. Runia (Melbourne). The principles on
which the annotated bibliography is based have been outlined in SPhA 2 (1990) 141–142,
and are largely based on those used to compile the ‘mother works’, R-R and RRS. The
division of the work this year has been as follows: material in English (and Dutch) by
D. T. Runia (DTR), E. Birnbaum (EB), K. A. Fox (KAF), A. C. Geljon (ACG) and H. M.
Keizer (HMK); in French by J. Riaud (JR); in Italian by R. Radice (RR) and H.M. Keizer
(HMK); in German by G. Schimanowski (GS); in Spanish and Portugese by J. P. Martín
(JPM); in Hebrew (and by Israeli scholars) by D. Satran (DS); in Scandinavian languages
(and by Scandinavian scholars) by T. Seland (TS). Once again this year there has been
close co-operation with L. Perrone (Bologna/Pisa), indefatigable editor of Adamantius
(Origen studies). I am also grateful both to authors who have helped me in gaining
access to items not easily available to me in Australia and to colleagues who have drawn
my attention to bibliographical material which I missed or who have helped me locate
obscure items. They include this year Manuel Alexandre, Giovanni Benedetto, John
Dillon, Piet van der Horst, Alan Kerkeslager, Frank Shaw and Emmanuele Vimercati.
With sadness I record the death of Henk Spierenburg (The Hague), who showed a great
interest in this bibliography and esp. in Philo’s relation to Gnosticism and esoteric
traditions. I am once again extremely grateful to my former Leiden colleague M. R. J.
Hofstede for efficiently performing diverse electronic searches. The bibliography is
inevitably incomplete, because much work on Philo is tucked away in monographs and
articles, the titles of which do not mention his name. Scholars are encouraged to get in
touch with members of the team if they spot omissions (addresses below in ‘Notes on
Contributors’).
162 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
male and female are combined with the notion of spiritual progress in which the female
can be left behind, but the soul can also receive the divine seed. After some general
observations on Philo’s interpretation of eunuchism, the article concentrates on the figure
of Joseph. Just like the Rabbis, Philo is sensitive to ambiguities in the figure of Joseph as
he appears in the biblical narrative. He can be read both negatively (indulging in
pleasure) and positively (rejecting passion). The latter interpretation runs parallel to
his allegorization of circumcision. Ultimately Philo’s gender hierarchy guarantees that
the figure of the eunuch must always be subject to slippage back into the passive realm of
sensuality. Philo thus prefigures debates about the role of self-mutilation in early
Christianity. (DTR)
M. Baltes, Die philosophische Lehre des Platonismus: Von der »Seele« als der
Ursache aller sinnvollen Abläufe, 2 vols., Der Platonismus in der Antike 6
(Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt 2002).
Continuing this magnificent source-book of the history of Platonism up to about the 4th
cent. c.e. (cf. R-R 8731, RRS 9015, 9603, SPhA 13 (2001 252), Baltes now systematically
bibliography of philonic studies 2002 163
collects and comments on texts relating to the doctrine of the soul. The only Philonic text
selected is Opif. 137, illustrating the soul as a m°sh oÈs¤a, but further references to the
Alexandrian in the commentary on other texts. Sadly this volume is the last to be
completed by Baltes, who died in January 2003. The project is being continued by C.
Pietsch and M.-L. Lakmann. (DTR)
S.-P. Bergjan, Der fürsorgende Gott. Der Begriff der PRONOIA Gottes in
der apologetischen Literatur der Alten Kirche, Arbeiten zur Kirchengeschichte
81 (Berlin–New York 2002), esp. 39–43.
The conviction that God was concerned for the world was generally current at the time
of the rise of Christianity. In her study in the Christian apologetic literature of the 2nd
and 3rd centuries Bergjan makes some reference to the term pronoia in Philo’s writings.
For example Conf. 115, Det. 144f. and Post. 11 are cited as the background of some ideas of
the Church Fathers, especially those of Alexandria. Philo was one of the first who
explained the nature of God with reference to his activity — as a general pattern of
meaning, in terms of order or as individual care. It is a pity that in the monograph no
attention was paid to Philo’s treatise on divine providence (De providentia 1–2) or the
two political-apologetic ones (In Flaccum and Legatio), where the idea of the divine
providence is underlined in central passages. (GS)
and political power to the interrelationships between Philonic thought and Platonic and
Stoic philosophy. For individual contributions see the summaries elsewhere in this
bibliography (Calabi, Graffigna, Mazzanti, Radice). (RR)
The article deals with the meaning of the desert as seen in Philo’s De vita Moysis. It
intends to show how the desert is not only a physical place but offers to human beings the
possibility of rising to God. In this treatise there is a strict relationship between the
desert, suffering and divine intervention. In this context manna is the link between
human beings and God. The human path towards God starts with the sufferings and the
deprivations inflicted by the desert, but finally humans reach the contemplation of
nature and the knowledge of God through the wonder of manna as divine manifestation.
(DTR; based on author’s summary)
property, and some various provisions like the total number of members, their clothes,
swearing and the degree of determinism in their ideology. The author argues that
neither Philo nor Josephus can count as first-hand witnesses. The evidence from Greco-
Roman sources such as these very probably refer to the same groups as depicted in the
Scrolls; but one should not expect a greater degree of accuracy than is generally
characteristic of Greek sources of alien civilizations or customs. (TS)
In Mos. Philo presents Moses as a representative of the perfect king, and in describing
Moses’ life he follows the method of ancient biographies, discussing his descent,
childhood and education. He emphasizes the excellence of Moses’ parents, who are both
Levites, and dramatizes the story of the abandonment of Moses by his parents. Retelling
the narrative, he refers several times to the role of divine providence in the rescue of
Moses. A typical motif in the biography of a hero is his exceptional physical and
intellectual development, his beauty, and self-restraint. This motif occurs in Philo as
well, who narrates that Moses was educated by teachers from Greece and Egypt, and
that he quickly surpassed his teachers’ intellect. It is noteworthy that he is educated in
the same subjects as the philosopher-king in Plato’s Republic. In contrast to Josephus,
Philo recounts the story of the killing of an Egyptian overseer by Moses, giving
justification for Moses’ deed, but he does not speak about the two Israelites fighting.
(ACG)
then examines how these stories were portrayed in Philo, Pseudo-Philo, and Josephus.
At Mos. 1.258–262, Philo drops any mention of God hardening Sihon’s heart and the
divine mandate to destroy all men, women and children. Only soldiers are put to death.
Moreover, the Israelites had justice on their side in view of how their emissaries were
treated. At Leg. 3.225–235, the story is treated allegorically with Sihon being equated
with Sophists. Philo does not treat the elimination of Og and his people. (KAF)
Moses suggest that they can. The politicus graecus is immersed in the material world and
cannot be fully unified with Jewish piety. The figure of Joseph represents a distinctive
spiritual experience. (DTR; based on author’s summary)
topic of the opening verse reappears at the end. Without arguing for any continuity
between Philo and the Talmud, the authors observe that ‘the same tension between
exegetical and homiletic foundations must have created the same patterns and structures
in both sources’ (232). To illustrate the pattern of symmetry and teleology, the authors
analyze Philo’s Legum allegoriae and B. Qid 29a–36a (the pattern may characterize the
underlying Mishnaic chapter as well). Variations on the pattern in the Talmud are also
discussed. Some observations by Philo about beginnings and ends are adduced to argue
that symmetry and teleology were at the heart of both his composition and his
philosophy. (EB)
and the theme of creation. Philo was for Origen not only a theoretical model, but also a
limitless resource for practical purposes. (DTR)
be achieved by a greater focus on what he calls the ‘lower elements’ of the text. The first
of these is Philo’s understanding of the Septuagintal text that forms the basis of the
treatises. The Septuagint should be seen as a ‘stand-alone’ text, not just a translation of
the Hebrew. Moreover Philo’s reading of the text is not always easy to discern, because
he often moves straight to allegorical interpretation. The second ‘lower element’ is the
‘grammatical’ level, using the term in the ancient sense, i.e. the level of interpretation or
exegesis of literary texts. The third is the rhetorical level, which is the aspect of the
text directed towards the reader’s edification. Kamesar ends the article by emphasizing
that other themes, including the relation to wider exegetical traditions and philoso-
phical issues, should not be neglected. But choices have to be made, and it is hoped that
differing approaches will result in a broader illumination of Philo’s writings. (DTR)
works through the Armenian tradition, Langermann observes, ‘If Chiesa is correct, the
question is no longer whether Philo’s writings were known in the early Islamic period,
but how much of the Philonic corpus was available and through which channels of
submission’ (p. 182). Langermann also discusses Pythagorean aspects of Philo’s thought,
especially arithmology. (EB)
M. Mach [˚am lakym], “ ˆwlyp ypl ,yjxnh dmwlh ,µhrba” [‘Faith, Practice and
Learning — Abraham according to Philo’], in M. Hallamish, H. Kasher
and Y. Silman (edd.), The Faith of Abraham in the Light of Interpretation
throughout the Ages (Ramat-Gan 2002) 59–70.
Following a brief survey of the importance of Abraham in the varied forms and
expressions of Judaism during the Second Temple period, Mach turns to the centrality of
the figure in the writings of Philo. The point of departure for the investigation is the
divergence of Philo’s portrayal from that found in the epistles of Paul. The latter’s
focused treatment of Abraham’s ‘justification through faith’ (Gen 15:6) is contrasted
with Philo’s dynamic description of the patriarch’s progress through the acquisition of
secure knowledge of the Deity. Mach places predominant emphasis on the epistemo-
logical process which underlies Philo’s own use of the word pistis and the concomitant
portrayal of Abraham on his path to becoming a nomos empsychos. (DS)
Judaism, including Philo. They hold an universal and unitary vision of history, in which
Adam is the origin and in which the first developments are led by the patriarchs. The
Pentateuch is considered the first non-mythological book of the history of mankind.
(JPM)
similarities and differences between Aristeas and Philo, specially in relation to to Mos.
2:31–44. (JPM)
D. Rokeah, Justin Martyr and the Jews, Jewish and Christian Perspectives
Series 5 (Leiden etc. 2002), esp. 22–28.
This work is a revised and updated version of an earlier edition published in Hebrew
by The Ben-Zion Dinur Center for Research in Jewish History, the Hebrew University,
186 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
Jerusalem in 1998. Chapter four of this study contains a summary of the discussion on the
question of Justin’s dependence on Philo. E. R. Goodenough argues that several Philonic
interpretations in Justin prove the Christian author’s dependence on Philo. A different
view is advanced by L. W. Barnard, who examines the development of the theory of the
Logos in Judaism and Greek thought. In his view the similarities between he two writers
must be regarded as a product of their common source, viz. the LXX. Finally, the opinion
of O. Skarskaune is reported, who posits that no evidence for a direct link between Philo
and Justin exists. Justin’s sources are (1) Christian testimonies, based on disputes between
Jewish-Christians and Christians, and (2) typological interpretation developed by
Justin himself. (ACG)
The article examines the relation between Greek philosophical and Hellenistic-
Jewish ideas by focusing on the concept of eudaimonia, usually but misleadingly
translated ‘happiness’. In the first section six crucial features of the concept in Greek
thought are outlined, notably the link to the good life and theological connotations. In
the next two sections use of the term and concept in Philo and Josephus are examined. It is
concluded that in these authors a form of eudaimonism is present, but elsewhere in
Hellenistic-Jewish literature it scarcely occurs. The question is then raised whether this
is perhaps merely a matter of terminology, i.e. a Greek term is used but its content is
Jewish. It is proven that this is not the case by noting that Philo relates the concept of
eudaimonia to God, which does not take place in the Bible at all. In the final section the
question is raised why Philo is so attracted to the themes of excellence (aretê) and well-
being (eudaimonia). It is concluded that they help him bridge the gap between his
loyalty to Judaism and his situation as an intellectual in Alexandria. (DTR)
gives way to a different approach which is less confident and more complex, involving a
negative theology in which the nature of God is not denied but regarded as not directly
accessible to human knowledge. Three further authors are adduced by way of compari-
son: the Pseudo-Aristotelian De mundo, Seneca and Alcinous. The paper ends with some
reflections on whether Philo, in his philosophical theology, is a witness or an innovator.
‘Philo stands at the interface of Hellenistic and later Greek philosophy, looking … both
back and forward. He has the status of an outsider. The inspiration that he found in
biblical thought made him sensitive to changes that were in the air, e.g. in the case of
negative theology… [T]he texts in which Philo points forward to later developments are
the ones that are most interesting (311).’ (DTR)
K. O. Sandnes, Belly and Body in the Pauline Epistles, Society for New
Testament Studies Monograph Series 120 (Cambridge 2002), esp. 108–135.
In a number of passages, Paul uses expressions like ‘their god is the belly’ (Phil. 3:19),
or serving ‘their own belly’ (Rom 16:18). In this study K. O. Sandnes suggests that Paul
here exploits a traditional idiom, a topos or a literary commonplace that is attested in
ancient Greco-Roman sources, and exploited in Jewish sources as well. The belly became a
catchword for a life controlled by the passions. Accusations of belly-worship was not
only pejorative rhetoric to Paul, but developed from Paul’s conviction that the body was
bibliography of philonic studies 2002 189
destined to a future with Christ. After an introductory chapter, Sandnes deals in Chap-
ter Two with Aspects of ancient theories of the belly: ‘the belly as a sign — ancient physio-
gnomics’ (24–35); ‘The belly in ancient moral philosophy’ (35–60); ‘Ancient critique of
Epicureanism’ (61–78), and ‘Banquets — opportunities for the belly’ (79–93). In Chapter
Three he deals with The appropriated belly (97–135), briefly presenting aspects of the
belly-topos in Jewish-Hellenistic sources, and then ‘The belly in Philo’s writings’ (108–
135). Sandnes finds two partly conflicting views on the belly in the writings of Philo. On
the one hand, his warnings against being enslaved to the belly and its pleasures indicate
opposition to immoderate pleasure. The desires of the belly have to be controlled,
mastered or tamed. On the other hand, the belly is viewed from another perspective as
well. It is not only a matter of taking control of the belly, but to abandon it altogether. At
the end, belly-devotion is a sign of paganism. According to Sandnes, a possible way to
reconcile these two views might be Philo’s concept of gradual progress through training.
Philo does not expect everyone to have reached the same level in mastering the belly,
thus allowing for some flexibility in his attitudes. In the rest of his study, Sandnes deals
with belly-worship in the Pauline texts of Philippians, Romans and 1 Corinthians.
Finally he tests his results by having a look at how the earliest expositors of Paul’s
letters dealt with this topic. (TS)
P. Schäfer, Mirror of His Beauty: Feminine Images of God from the Bible to
the Early Kabbalah. Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the
Modern World (Princeton–Oxford 2002), esp. 39–57.
The notion of a feminine manifestation of God is found in the earliest kabbalistic
work, the 12th century book Bahir. Schäfer seeks the origins of this notion by tracing
possible precedents in biblical and early Jewish wisdom literature, Philo and gnostic
sources, and in the idea of the Shekhinah in rabbinic literature and Jewish philoso-
phical writings. Observing that ‘the kabbalistic notion of God’s femininity [is] a radical
departure from earlier Jewish models’ (10), Schäfer re-examines G. Scholem’s theory
that the notion originated in gnostic sources. He then turns to the Christian side of the
Bahir’s setting in 12th century France and finds significance in ‘the gradual deification of
Mary’ (12) and in Jewish-Christian polemics about Mary. He concludes by suggesting
ways of understanding origins and influence as a dynamic process. On the subject of Philo
he notes that, influenced by Jewish and philosophical traditions, Philo presents a range
of complex ideas about Wisdom and the Logos, at times even changing the gender of
Wisdom from female to male. (EB)
G. Schimanowski, ‘Philo als Prophet, Philo als Christ, Philo als Bischof’,
in F. Siegert (ed.), Grenzgänge. Menschen und Schicksale zwischen jüdischer,
christlicher und deutscher Identität: Festschrift für Diethard Aschoff, Münste-
raner Judaistische Studien 11 (Münster 2002) 36–49.
It is a curious part of the reception of Philo that he was adopted from Christianity as
witness of the sufferings of Christ and the beginning of Christianity and that by the end
of the Patristic period he had virtually achieved the status of a Church Father. This
development is clearly demonstrated through two bronze-busts in the Cathedral of
Münster, Germany, where Philo is twice represented as part of altogether 14 busts of the
OT prophets. He holds a scroll written with a Latin text in his hand: Philo. Morte
turpissima condemnemus illum (Let us condemn him to a shameful death). This shows
that he is regarded as the author of the book of Wisdom (cf. Wisd. 2:20). The article
pursues Philo’s Nachleben in Christianity as Prophet, witness to the beginning of
Christianity and even finally by the end of the 5th century c.e. as bishop (ej p iv s kopo~).
This first part is based upon the monograph of D. T. Runia, Philo in Early Christian
Literature. A Survey (R-R 9373). The second part gives an overview of the three
historical aspects: Philo the Jew, Philo the Alexandrian and Philo the Roman. Two
illustrations of Philo’s bust precede the article. (GS)
and opposes two traditions of ancient Jewish literature on Jacob: one rejects him as a
cheater because he has supplanted his brother; the other elevates him as model of the
Jewish people. Philo belongs to this second tradition, together with the Book of Jubilees,
the Targum Neofiti and others. Philo sees in Jacob a prototype of the wise person, model
of asceticism and virtue. (JPM)
are his first source. The use of the term pneuma comes nearer to the Jewish tradition than
to the Greek background. Whitlock explains some traditional views on the question of
inspiration and the Holy Scripture. Most of these he agrees with, but on some occasions
he has re-examined the texts for his own purpose. In some cases, however, he is
criticizing interpretations such as that of H. Leisegang which goes back to the beginning
of the 20th century. Interaction with recent interpretations of Philo is rare. (GS)
W. T. Wilson, ‘Sin as Sex and Sex with Sin: The Anthropology of James
1:12–15’, Harvard Theological Review 95 (2002) 147–168, esp. 149–157.
Philo’s use of sexual metaphors to illumine the human predicament helps clarify the
Book of James’ utilization of the same at James 1:12–15. (KAF)
W. Carter, ‘Adult Children and Elderly Parents: the Worlds of the New
Testament’, Journal of Religious Gerontology 12 (2001) 45–59.
As background for understanding NT teaching about adult children and elderly
parents, the author discusses Philo, Aristotle, and the 2nd century c.e. Stoic Hierocles.
Philo speaks of honoring one’s parents in connection with the fifth commandment.
According to him parents have a God-like role, are superior in virtue because they are
older, and function as instructors and benefactors to their children. Philo does not
acknowledge any change in the relationship between children and parents as children
become adults. Based on Leviticus 19, Philo also mentions respect for the elderly, for
whom parents are ‘prototypes’. Philo’s teachings are similar to other first-century
discussions — which go back to as early as Aristotle — on household organization.
Aristotle establishes a hierarchic household structure in which the male is central — as
husband, father, master, and wealth-earner. Children are indebted to parents for
sustenance, upbringing, and education and remain obligated to parents throughout their
lives. Hierocles also emphasizes a child’s ‘never-ending obligation’ to care for parents
(52) and elaborates on this obligation in several ways. The NT does not speak with one
voice on this issue. Some writings uphold Aristotelian tradition, but Matthew calls for a
new kind of community of disciples that is egalitarian and inclusive. This diversity in
NT positions opens the way for different Christian responses regarding obligations of
adults to their parents. (EB)
D. Goodblatt [flbdwg dwd], “ynv tyb tpwqtb larcy-≈rab hkwlmhw hnwhkh dwjya ”
[‘The Union of Priesthood and Kingship in Second Temple Judea’], Cathedra
102 (2001) 7–28, 209 [English summary].
The author claims that the commonly perceived opposition in Judaism of the Second
Temple period to the union of the offices of priesthood and kingship deserves careful
reexamination. In response to a scholarly consensus that interprets widespread enmity to
the Hasmonean dynasty as a result of principled opposition to the possibility of the
linking of the roles of king and priest, Goodblatt argues that such expressions are
consistently ad hominem and should not be treated as an expression of ideological
incompatibility. In the course of the argument, Philo’s standpoint is reviewed (20–21):
the brief examination of five key passages leads the author to the conclusion that Philo
is positively inclined in principle to the possibility of the union of kingship and
priesthood, while his reservations are always on the level of either practical difficulty
or historical circumstance. (DS)
Y. Liebes [sbyl hdwhy], hryxy rps lv hryxyh trwt [Ars Poetica in Sefer Yetsira]
(Jerusalem–Tel Aviv 2000), esp. 76–79, 91–92, 105–110, 206–207, 226–228,
230–231.
Liebes’ monograph presents a radical reevaluation of the status of the Jewish
mystical treatise known as Sefer Yetsirah or, somewhat inadequately, the ‘Book of
Formation.’ This small but enigmatic composition, which played a seminal role in the
development of central components of Jewish mysticism in the Middle Ages, has been
described as ‘layers of tradition woven together to form a collage of speculation on the
process of divine creativity and the nature of what has been created’. (thus E. Wolfson,
SPhA 16 (2004) 227; see the critical considerations raised in his review article of Liebes’
book there.) The claim of this book for the interests of the present audience lies precisely
in its extreme argument for an early dating of the Sefer Yetsirah: in opposition to a
consensus of scholarly opinion which sees the treatise as inherently tied to an early
Islamic context, Liebes would assign the work to the end of the period of the Second
Temple. The argument naturally turns to salient parallel material from the first century
c.e., and there are extended discussions of presumed contacts between the mystical
treatise and the Philonic corpus, especially with regard to the presentation of Abraham
(76–79, 91–92, 105–110), the Temple (206–207) and messianic universalism (226–228). In
his concluding discussion of the date of Sefer Yetsirah (230–231), Liebes emphasizes the
extreme proximity of the worldviews of the author with those of Philo. (DS)
D. Noy, ‘‘A Sight Unfit to See’: Jewish Reactions to the Roman Imperial
Cult’, Classics Ireland 8 (2001) 68–83.
Taking his point of departure in Gaius Caligula’s decision to have a statue of himself
installed in the Jewish Temple at Jerusalem, the author discusses this and other episodes
in order to reach a conclusion on the general Jewish reactions to the imperial cult. Using
the works of Philo, Josephus, the Rabbis and some papyri and inscriptions, the author’s
main thesis is that the case of Caligula was exceptional, and that usually there was no
pressure from central authorities for Jews to compromise with the cult, although the
issue may have been less clear-cut at a local level. In general, the Jews seem to have been
content to ignore the imperial cult, and the proponents of the cult were content to ignore
the Jews. (TS)
SUPPLEMENT
A Provisional Bibliography 2003–2005
2003
F. Alesse, ‘Il tema dell’emanazione (aporroia) nella letteratura astrologica e
non astrologica tra
—— , ‘Il tema dell’emanazione (aporroia) nella letteratura astrologica e
non astrologica tra I sec. a.C. e II d.Ch.’, MHNH (Revista Internacional
de Investigación sobre Magia y Astrología Antiguas) 3 (2003) 117-134.
M. Alesso, ‘Cosmopolitismo alejandrino en la obra de Filón’, Revista de
Historia Universal 13 (2003) 17–30. I sec. a.C. e II d.C.’, MHNH (Revista
Internacional de Investigación sobre Magia y Astrología Antiguas) 3 (2003)
117–134.
—— , ‘No es bueno que el hombre esté solo’, Circe 8 (2003) 17–30.
W. Ameling, ‘‘Market-place’ und Gewalt. Die Juden in Alexandrien’,
Würzburger Jahrbücher für die Altertumswissenschaft 27 (2003) 71–123.
A. E. Arterbury, ‘Abraham’s Hospitality among Jewish and Early Chris-
tian Writers: a Traditional History of Gen 18:1–16 and its Relevance for
the Study of the New Testament’, Perspectives in Religious Studies 30
(2003) 359–376.
D. E. Aune, T. Seland and J. H. Ulrichsen (edd.), Neotestamentica et
Philonica: Studies in Honor of Peder Borgen, Supplements to Novum
Testamentum 106 (Leiden–Boston 2003).
S. Badilita, ‘La communauté des Thérapeutes: une Philonopolis?’, Adaman-
tius 9 (2003) 67–77.
R. Bergmeier, ‘Zum historischen Wert der Essenerberichte von Philo und
Josephus’, in J. Frey and H. Stegemann (edd.), Qumrankontrovers. Bei-
träge zu den Textfunden vom Toten Meer, Einblicke. Ergebnisse – Berichte –
Reflexionen aus Tagungen der Katholischen Akademie Schwerte 6
(Paderborn 2003) 11–22.
supplement: provisional bibliography 2003-2005 199
2004
M. Alesso, ‘La alegoría de la serpiente en Filón de Alejandría: Legum
Allegoriae II, 71–105’, Nova Tellus (2004) 97–119.
—— , ‘La génesis del tiempo en Filón de Alejandría’, Circe 9 (2004) 16–30.
F. Avemarie, ‘Juden vor den Richterstühlen Roms. In Flaccum und die
Apostelgeschichte im Vergleich’, in R. Deines and K.-W. Niebuhr
(edd.), Philo und das Neue Testament: Wechselseitige Wahrnehmungen. 1.
Internationales Symposium zum Corpus Judaeo-Hellenisticum Novi Testa-
menti (Eisenach/Jena, Mai 2003), WUNT 172 (Tübingen 2004) 107–126.
C. Batsch, ‘ Le ‘pacifisme des Esséniens’, un mythe historiographique’,
Revue de Qumran 21 (2004) 457–468.
M. A. Beavis, ‘Philo’s Therapeutai: Philosopher’s Dream or Utopian Con-
struction’, Journal for the Study of the Pseudoepigrapha 14 (2004) 30–42.
E. Birnbaum, ‘A Leader with Vision in the Ancient Jewish Diapora: Philo
of Alexandria’, in J. Wertheimer (ed.), Jewish Religious Leadership: Image
and Reality, 2 vols. (New York 2004) 1.57–90.
—— , ‘Portrayals of the Wise and Virtuous in Alexandrian Jewish Works:
Jews’ Perceptions of Themselves and Others’, in W. V Harris and
G. Ruffini (edd.), Ancient Alexandria between Egypt and Greece, Colum-
bia Studies in the Classical Tradition 26 (Leiden–Boston 2004) 125–160.
M. Böhm, ‘Abraham und die Erzväter bei Philo: Hermeneutische Über-
legungen zur Konzeption der Arbeit am CJHNT’, in R. Deines and
K.-W. Niebuhr (edd.), Philo und das Neue Testament: Wechselseitige Wahr-
nehmungen. 1. Internationales Symposium zum Corpus Judaeo-Hellenisticum
Novi Testamenti (Eisenach/Jena, Mai 2003), WUNT 172 (Tübingen 2004)
377–395.
D. Boyarin, ‘By Way of Apology: Dawson, Edwards, Origen’, The Studia
Philonica Annual 16 (2004) 188–217, esp. 200ff.
F. Calabi, ‘Les sacrifices et leur signification symbolique chez Philon
d’Alexandrie’, in E. Bons (ed.), «Car c’est l’amour qui me plait, non le
sacrifice…» Recherches sur Osée 6:6 et son interprétation juive et chrétienne,
Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 88 (Leiden–Boston
2004) 97–117.
—— , ‘Tra Platone e la bibbia: ontologia e teologia in Filone d’Alessandria’,
Oltrecorrente No. 9 (2004) 47–59.
N. G. Cohen, ‘The Mystery-Terminology in Philo’, in R. Deines and K.-W.
Niebuhr (edd.), Philo und das Neue Testament: Wechselseitige Wahrneh-
mungen. 1. Internationales Symposium zum Corpus Judaeo-Hellenisticum
Novi Testamenti (Eisenach/Jena, Mai 2003), WUNT 172 (Tübingen 2004)
173–187.
208 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
2005
M. Böhm, Rezeption und Funktion der Vätererzählungen bei Philo von Alexan-
dria. Zum Zusammenhang von Kontext, Hermeneutik und Exegese im frühen
Judentum, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft
und die Kunde der älteren Kirche 128 (Berlin–New York 2005).
L. Carlsson, Round Trips to Heaven. Otherworldly Travelers in Early Judaism
& Christianity, Lund Studies in History of Religions 19 (Stockholm 2005).
J. Dillon, ‘Cosmic Gods and Primordial Chaos in Hellenistic and Roman
Philosophy: the Context of Philo’s Interpretation of Plato’s Timaeus and
the Book of Genesis’, in G. H. van Kooten (ed.), The Creation of Heaven
and Earth: Re-interpretations of Genesis 1 in the Context of Judaism, Ancient
Philosophy, Christianity, and Modern Physics, Themes in Biblical Narrative:
Jewish and Christian Traditions 8 (Leiden–Boston 2005) 97–108.
A.-K. Geljon, ‘Divine Infinity in Gregory of Nyssa and Philo of Alexan-
dria’, Vigiliae Christianae 59 (2005) 152-178.R. Goulet, ‘Allégorisme et
anti-allégorisme chez Philon d’Alexandrie’, in G. Dahan and R. Goulet
(edd.), Allégorie des poètes allégorie des philosophes: études sur la poétique et
l’herméneutique de l’allégorie de l’Antiquité à la Réforme (Paris 2005) 59–87.
G. H. van Kooten, ‘The ‘True Light which enlightens everyone’ (John
1:9): John, Genesis, the Platonic Notion of the ‘True, Noetic Light,’ and
the Allegory of the Cave in Plato’s Republic’, in idem (ed.), The Creation
of Heaven and Earth: Re-interpretations of Genesis 1 in the Context of Judaism,
Ancient Philosophy, Christianity, and Modern Physics, Themes in Biblical
Narrative: Jewish and Christian Traditions 8 (Leiden–Boston 2005) 149–
194, esp. 153–155.
A. Kovelman, Between Alexandria and Jerusalem: the Dynamic of Jewish and
Hellenistic Culture, The Brill Reference Library of Judaism 21 (Leiden–
Boston 2005)
K. Schenck, A Brief Guide to Philo (Louisville 2005).
S. Weitzman, Surviving Sacrilege: Cultural Persistence in Jewish Antiquity
(Cambridge Mass. 2005), esp. 58–75.
The Studia Philonica Annual XVII (2005) 215–251
argues that these terms lie on a line between command and prohibition on
the one hand and knowledge and moral excellence on the other hand, that
is between acting out of fear because commanded to do so and acting
because you yourself want to do so. Para¤nesiw (injunction) lies closer to
the command/prohibition side while protropÆ (urging) lies closer to the
knowledge/moral virtue side. The term parãklhsiw (exhortation) is a
broader term and covers both injunction and urging. While one can argue
with one or another of Engberg-Petersen’s interpretations, he has per-
formed a valuable service by retrieving these terms from a kind of
paraenetic linguistic soup.
Finally, Kåre Fuglseth’s essay ‘Common Words in the New Testament
and Philo: Some Results from a Complete Vocabulary Comparison’ (pp.
393–414) draws on the computerized database of the Philo Concordance
Project, which he worked on with Borgen and R. Skarsten and which lies
behind The Philo Index. A Complete Greek Word Index to the Writings of Philo of
Alexandria (Grand Rapids: 2000). He uses this database to compare the
common words in the Philonic corpus with those found in the New Testa-
ment. On the basis of this comparison, Fuglseth concludes that, in addition
to common themes, the comparison of the vocabulary indicates that there
are unique ties between some of the texts of the New Testament and the
writings of Philo. This is especially the case for the relationship between the
Philonic corpus and the Letter to the Hebrews, a relationship that now
deserves renewed consideration.
All five of these essays on various aspects of Philo’s work are quite well
done. They are presented clearly and are well argued. They are a fitting
tribute to a scholar who has done and still does both.
In his previous book, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity
and Judaism,1 Daniel Boyarin argued that Judaism and Christianity did not
part ways but rather constituted a single continuum until the early fourth
century. In Border Lines, Boyarin continues to ponder the parting, or, as he
prefers, the partitioning, of Judaism and Christianity by addressing the
1 Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and
Judaism (Stanford, 1999).
218 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
question: how and why was the border between Judaism and Christianity
written and by whom? Boyarin situates this question within the Jewish and
Christian struggle for self-identification and self-definition in the early
centuries of the common era, and looks to the discourse of orthodoxy and
heresy for one, if not necessarily the single, definitive, answer.
Boyarin’s working hypothesis presumes a category he calls ‘Judaeo-
Christianity,’ not to be confused with ‘Jewish Christianity.’ Judaeo-
Christianity is to be understood as ‘the entire multiform cultural system …
the original cauldron of contentious, dissonant, sometimes friendly, more
frequently hostile, fecund religious productivity out of which ultimately
precipitated two institutions at the end of late antiquity: orthodox Chris-
tianity and rabbinic Judaism’ (p. 44). Boyarin’s work aims not only to
describe this category but also to account for a division within it that by the
end of the third or early fourth centuries produced two separate categories,
‘Judaism’ and ‘Christianity,’ that came to be viewed by many as binary
opposites. Instrumental in drawing this border line was the discourse of
early Christian heresiology, which produced differentiation both within
each of the emergent categories and between them.
Boyarin’s argument focuses not on the essences of Judaism and
Christianity — what Judaism and Christianity ‘were’ — but rather on the
history of representations of orthodoxy and heresy. He begins with texts
from the second and third century, principally Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho
and the Mishna and Tosefta, in order to trace the discourse of heresiology
constructed in each. Next, he addresses Logos theology, that is, the belief in
a ‘Logos’ or divine word as a constitutive and active part of the divine, in
order to show its transmutation from a commonly-held doctrine of God to
the central theological difference between Judaism and Christianity (p. 30).
He traces this development through readings of the prologue of the Fourth
Gospel and a number of pre-rabbinic and para-rabbinic texts in order to
show the widespread acceptance of Logos theology, and then turns to the
Rabbis of the Talmud who turn Logos theology into a difference between
Jews and Others in the context of their construction of heresiology. Finally,
Boyarin discusses orthodox Christianity’s construction of Judaism and
Christianity as religions in the fourth and fifth century, with particular focus
on the rabbis’ rejection of ‘Judaism’ as a name for Jewishness. By this
point, the main difference between ‘Judaism’ and ‘Christianity’ lay in their
asymmetrical understanding of Judaism. Boyarin argues that even as
Christianity configures Judaism as a different religion, Judaism refuses that
call, with the occasional, ambivalent and strategic exception.
Throughout, Boyarin engages in a crucial methodological move. Rather
than reading texts as descriptions of already-existing differences, he under-
book review section 219
1 See ‘John 8:31–59 from a Jewish Perspective,’ in Remembering for the Future 2000: The
Holocaust in an Age of Genocides, vol. 2, ed. J. K. Roth and E. Maxwell-Meynard (London
2001), 787–97.
222 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
Adele Reinhartz
Wilfred Laurier University
The title of the book, which is the revision of the author’s doctoral
dissertation, echoes a famous article by G. Vermes (‘Essenes-Therapeutai-
Qumran,’ The Durham University Journal 52 [1960], 97–115). Instead of
connecting the Essenes and Qumran, as one would do at once, the author
chooses to ground her analysis on the ancient sources. First, she analyses
the Essenes and the Therapeutai, who are described by indirect sources
(particularly Josephus for the first, and De vita contemplativa by Philo for the
latter); and second, the Qumran community, which is described by direct
sources. After separate analyses of the three groups (pp. 19–288), a
comparison is proposed, where some of the key questions of the three
groups’ life are discussed, such as entrance into the community, commu-
nity hierarchy and fraternal relationships, economic management, women
and the issue of celibacy (pp. 291–320).
The Therapeutai community is approached with particular attention to
detail (pp. 79–200). The author believes that the place Philo described is a
real place, located north of the Mareotic lake (the term Íp°r of Contempl. 22
is interpreted in this way, pp. 101–105), in an area between the lake and the
sea. The community is viewed as a real one and possesses a real architectu-
ral structure. The life and activities of the Therapeutai are then considered,
especially with regard to the composition of the community. Particularly
stressed is the issue of women, called Therapeutrides. Given Philo’s
misogyny, the author argues, both the positive description and the peculiar
nomenclature are signs of historical authenticity. The Therapeutrides must
have been recognised as genuine members of the community, must have
had a high education and conducted the same lifestyle as the men, with the
unique exception of not taking vows and explaining the Scripture at a
224 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
community level. Like the men, the Therapeutrides must have been
celibate as well. The fact that Philo only explicitly considers the celibacy of
the female members of the community is due, according to the author, to
the difficulty of thinking of sexual abstention for women, who in ancient
society and in particular in Jewish society ‘found recognition, dignity and
position thanks to the fact of being married and having children’ (p. 148).
The author supposes that the ‘senior maidens’ of Contempl. 68 are women
who, upon being widowed, chose not to remarry, and being ‘certainly part
of a high economic, social and cultural level of Alexandrian society… after
completing their familial and social duties, might have been able to join the
Therapeutai community, in order to devote their lives to the service of God,
and to experience a more intimate communion with him’ (p. 148).
As for the first two movements, the analysis points out that despite the
similarities, there are divergences which cannot simply be corroborated
with other contemporaneous sources. The analysis therefore confirms the
Groningen hypothesis, according to which the relationship between the
Essene movement and the Qumran community is seen in terms of ‘affilia-
tion’, characterised by a subsequent independent evolution (p. 204, with
references). The Therapeutai, on the other hand, represent neither an Egyp-
tian version of Palestinian Essenism nor the contemplative side of the
Essene movement. The significant differences to be found in this group
(particularly the solitary rhythm of life and the mixed composition of the
community) cannot be merely explained, according to the author, by its
different geographic, social, cultural and economic environment. The Thera-
peutai represent a distinct community experience, independent from the
Essenes and Qumran. As for the three groups as a whole, they may be con-
sidered more as local communities than as authentic movements, especially
the Therapeutai and Qumran. On the other hand, the unifying factor is the
need for community, due to a common element that is both anthropologi-
cal (the desire and need to join a community) and religious (the search for
God). Finally, with regard to the comparison with Christian forms of mon-
asticism, the author rejects a direct connection between the Therapeutai and
the Desert Fathers as well as between the Qumran-Essenes and the Syrian
and Palestinian coenobites. Correspondences between them go back, rath-
er, to the anthropological-religious element common to the three groups.
I would like to emphasize the author’s precision and attention in her
quotation of Greek sources, which demonstrates her intimate knowledge
of the ancient texts, and especially of Philo’s work.
Silvia Castelli
Università degli Studi di Pavia
Pavia, Italy
book review section 225
Bruce W. Winter, Philo and Paul Among the Sophists: Alexandrian and
Corinthian Responses to a Julio-Claudian Movement. Second Edition, with
a Foreword by G. W. Bowersock. Grand Rapids MI – Cambridge, UK:
Eerdmans, 2002. xix + 302 pages. $32.00/£22.99 (paper).
This second edition updates and otherwise advances the basic lines of
argument first laid out in the author’s doctoral dissertation (Macquarie
University, 1988) and subsequently in its initial published edition (Cam-
bridge University Press, 1997). Most generally, the book argues that the
Second Sophistic, the earliest evidence for which has traditionally been seen
in the orations of Dio Chrysostom in the late first century c.e, was thriving
already decades earlier, in the middle of that century. This broad point,
however, arises from Winter’s more specific theses that Philo and Paul
both formulated consciously anti-sophistic positions in reaction to the
‘virtuoso orators’ who were gathering ardent followings in, respectively,
Alexandria and Corinth. The missionary activity and struggles of Paul as
reflected in his Corinthian letters are of particular interest to Winter. The
apostle is at any rate the subject of the book’s longest and densest argu-
ments (compare the nearly one hundred pages in three chapters on Paul
with just under fifty pages in three chapters on Philo). The book is intro-
duced by a new, very brief foreword by G. W. Bowersock that charac-
terizes it as an ‘authoritative work,’ ‘indispensable’ for those interested in
the practice of rhetoric in the Roman Empire (ix).
After an introductory chapter that lays out the parameters of the study
and briefly surveys past scholarship, Winter begins, in Part I, with an
examination of the evidence for sophistic activity in first-century Alexan-
dria. Apart from the writings of Philo, the principal evidence comes from
P.Oxy. 2190, a letter written by a student of the sophists in Alexandria who,
apparently between teachers, seeks counsel from his father (Chapter 1; text
and translation are provided in an appendix, pp. 256–60), and from Dio
Chrysostom’s Alexandrian Oration (Chapter 2). From these texts, Winter
expertly develops a portrayal of a sophistic movement integral to the
education and civic leadership of late first-century Alexandria. Sophists ‘ran
schools, declaimed publicly and stood in the place of traditional leaders of
the polis, namely the philosophers’ (p. 58). A high value was placed on
declamation at advanced levels of education; the services of the sophists
were thus in great demand and commanded significant compensation.
Winter also emphasizes the competitive dimension of the movement and
begins to develop, from Dio in particular, stock elements of the critique of
the sophists that emanated from philosophical circles (and already from
Plato): in short, the charge that guile, vanity, and avarice — not truth, virtue,
and civic duty — were their typical characteristics.
226 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
Neither of these texts, however, is dated earlier than the 70’s. Winter’s
claim that that this movement was already in full flower in Alexandria
decades before Dio is based on his reading of Philo, whose writings had
generally been overlooked in prior studies of the sophists. The crux of his
argument is found in Chapter 3 where, in what is apparently the first
systematic analysis of Philo’s use of the term ‘sophist,’ Winter argues that
it is not the ‘loose, pejorative’ term it has often been taken to be (p. 13), but
one that refers specifically to professional, ‘virtuoso orators’ operative in
cities like his own Alexandria (p. 79).
With this point established, Winter goes on to explore more fully Philo’s
posture vis-à-vis these sophists. Chapter Four explores his critique of the
movement, which revolves around a charge that they represent a hypo-
critical perversion of Greek paidea for the purposes of material gain. Funda-
mentally replicating Plato’s critique, Philo’s treatment is not dissimilar to
that of Dio, except that here the core points have been refracted through a
lens provided by the Jewish scriptures. Like Dio, for example, Philo picks up
Plato’s comparison of the sophist to a deceptive goÆw, but explicates it with
reference to the biblical account of the contest between Moses and the
magicians of Egypt. Chapter Five, finally, examines ‘Philo’s own experi-
ences among the sophists’ (p. 95). It is clear, first of all, that Philo had re-
ceived much of the same type of training they had. His Embassy to Gaius
reveals that he was himself of ‘considerable oratorical ability’ (p. 96), while
On Providence and Alexander show that he was also no stranger to the art of
debate. On the other hand, he clearly does not count himself a sophist;
sophists are a group to be defeated, not joined. Defeating them, however,
requires mastery of their arts, and Philo discourages all ‘‘laymen’ in
rhetoric’ (p. 100), however virtuous, from engaging in debate with them at
all. They are counseled to leave such debates to those — presumably like
Philo himself — who combine a love of virtue with rhetorical expertise.
In Part II Winter examines the evidence for sophistic activity in Corinth.
Once again he first explores the later evidence, in this case ranging from the
early 90s to about 110 c.e The analysis of the relevant texts from or
concerning both participants in the sophistic movement (Favorinus,
Herodes Atticus) and those critical of it (Dio, Plutarch, and some previously
neglected [in this context] works of Epictetus) in Chapters 6 and 7 com-
plement the portrait of the sophists developed in Part I. Once again one
finds sophists as ‘major public figures’ (p. 140) traveling in the elite circles
of the city. They came largely from wealthy, powerful families, and the
rhetorical training they offered represented an important step toward
public office. They placed a high premium on personal appearance, particu-
larly in the form of fine clothes and appropriate grooming habits. Winter
book review section 227
1
Cf. Winter’s ‘Philodemus and Paul on Rhetorical Delivery,’ in J. T. Fitzgerald et al.,
Philodemus and the New Testament World, NovTSup 111 (Leiden 2004) 323–42.
book review section 229
comparison with other cult leaders. After his failure to carry out the
demonstration of spiritual power he had threatened (1 Cor 4:18–21; cf. 2
Cor 12:21–13:3), the community came now to ‘desire proof that Christ [i.e.,
the possessing agent] is speaking in [him] at all’ (2 Cor 13:3) — a demand
that Winter entirely passes over. Thus Paul’s subsequent comparison of
himself with the ‘super-apostles’ in 2 Corinthians 10–13 is not limited to
matters of oratory, but also includes ‘signs and wonders and mighty
works’ (12:12) as well as ‘visions and revelations’ (12:1). Seen in this light,
the accusation that he’s been trying to scare them with letters while away
(10:9–11) seems less a critique of his skill at extemporaneous oratory per se
than a reversal of the very type of charge that Paul had earlier hurled at
them, namely, that their ‘arrogance’ toward him was empty, merely a
function of geographical distance, and not something that they could back
up with actual power in person (cf. 1 Cor 4:18). The core question asked in
Corinth, in short, would not seem to be ‘Is Paul among the sophists?’ (p. 1;
emphasis mine) but, as with his ancient namesake, ‘Is Paul among the pro-
phets?’ Nonetheless, the rhetoric Paul generates in response to this situa-
tion is helpfully illuminated by comparison with the long-standing debates
between philosophers and sophists.
This concern regarding the book’s interpretation of Paul’s Corinthian
letters should in no way overshadow what Winter has accomplished here.
There is much to be learned from this erudite and lucid volume. Winter
brings the sophistic movement to light in a way that should be of great
interest to any student of ancient Mediterranean society, including those
interested in locating Jewish intellectuals and the fledgling Christian
movement within it.
Matt Jackson-McCabe
Niagara University
Niagara Falls, NY
This book, the inaugural volume in the series ‘Studies in Philo of Alexan-
dria and Mediterranean Antiquity,’ is a collection of nine essays, all written
in English by Italian scholars. Some essays are specifically noted as revi-
sions of earlier work published in Italian, and others are not. In recent years
there has been a significant amount of research on Philo in Italy, but
outside that country much of it remains unread because of the language
230 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
subject’ of Philo’s usage (p. 28). The heart of the essay is a review of the
status questionis that highlights the work of Katz, Siegfried, Pick, Ryle,
Cohn-Wendland, Conybeare, Schroeder, Knox, Colson, Kahle, Barthélemy,
and Howard. In conclusion she quotes Cohn: ‘But a final solution of the
questions has not been brought, and, indeed, has not hitherto been possible,’
adding for her own part that ‘there is good reason for feeling discouraged’
(p. 46). Nonetheless, she identifies positive directions for continuing study.
First, ‘one would need to compare [Philo’s] exegetical method with that of
pre-rabbinic and rabbinic Judaism in order to identify the part represented
by Midrashic elements’ (pp. 46–47). Further, it would be necessary ‘to
compare the different ways in which the biblical text is quoted according to
the literary genre used by Philo and the period during which the writings
were produced.’ Finally, ‘a better knowledge of the Midrashic tradition
might help to understand the influence it had on the way the biblical text
was reproduced’ (p. 47). The final section of the essay is an excursus that
compares Philo’s use of the LXX text of the first book of the L e g u m
allegoriae in the Göttingen edition to ‘the version quoted by Philo as it
appears in the latest two editions,’ Loeb and Éditions du Cerf. She ends
with the assertion that ‘Philo freely chose which biblical text to follow
(either the Septuagint or the Hebrew)’ (p. 52).
Liliana Rosso Ubigli’s piece, ‘The Image of Israel in the Writings of Philo
of Alexandria,’ focuses on Flacc., Legat., and Spec. as the books which refer
most directly to Israel and its institutions (p. 53). She begins with an
examination of Philo’s understandings of the terms ÉEbra›oi, Xalda›oi,
ÉIouda›oi and ÉIsraÆl. Rosso Ubigli notes that although the history of Israel
is not one of Philo’s main interests, the concept of polyanthropia is almost a
leitmotif of his work. She discusses the term specifically as it appears in
Hypoth., where it ‘give[s] the impression of a kind of captatio benevolentiae,
since Augustus had passed a law which aimed to limit the fall in birthrate
among the upper classes’ (p. 60). Indeed, the Jewish population of Alexan-
dria was not limited to the two Jewish quarters, but extended to the other
parts of the city as well, not to mention throughout Egypt and elsewhere in
the Diaspora. Jews, according to Philo, have dual citizenship, both in the
‘Holy City’ of Jerusalem and in the land of their birth and nurture. How-
ever, writes Rosso Ubigli, ‘it is not the ‘land’ which attracts his interest, but
the laws and their interpretation’ (p. 66). Philo ‘extrapolated’ the Deca-
logue from the ‘general context of the Law,’ and ‘it is configured as a sort
of summa of general principles … in which the other particular rules of the
Law are subsumed’ (p. 68). ‘The Law lent itself, therefore, to interpretation
not only from a national point of view, but also from a universal one, if
certain rules, like those related to the particularistic character of Israel, could
232 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
qua spectacle,’ a scene that clearly reflects the games in the arena (p. 104).
Philo’s use of the theatrical metaphor is not always completely negative,
however. Calabi argues that Philo portrays many leaders, including Moses
and Joseph, as playing parts that are given them by God, who alone holds
real power. Good leaders acknowledge this, but bad ones like Flaccus fail to
make the distinction and illegitimately identify themselves with the roles
they play.
In ‘The ‘Mysteries’ in Philo of Alexandria,’ Angela Maria Mazzanti limits
her investigation to the terms mustÆrion, ˆrgia, and teletÆ. After a brief
survey of thought on the mysteries in authors such as U. Bianchi,
G. Bornkamm, E. R. Goodenough, and A. D. Nock, Mazzanti looks at how
Philo uses the vocabulary of ‘mystery’ to ‘distinguish between different
kinds of rituality’ (p. 121), to discuss salvation, corporeality, and particularly
initiation. Initiation into the mysteries is, according to Mazzanti, positively
correlated to the attainment of ethical perfection (pp. 126–27). She con-
cludes by noting that ‘the multiplicity of the themes emerging from the
reading of the text offers a detailed picture, problematic in many ways. The
terminology can be understood according to referential links that mirror
conceptual influences and well known (sic) formulations present both in the
ritual context and, especially, in a philosophic context’ (p. 129).
The title of Paola Graffigna’s essay, ‘The Stability of Perfection: The
Image of the Scales in Philo of Alexandria’ could more exactly read after
the colon ‘The Image of the Scales and the Ship in Philo of Alexandria.’
Graffigna makes a case for the central place that these two images hold in
expressing the relationship of humans to God and the often fluctuating
state of human happiness. The unbalanced scales or the tossing ship
represent the ethical wavering of the foolish person (here exemplified
particularly by the character of Cain in De posteritate Caini). This wavering is
the antithesis of stability (eustatheia), a word Philo borrows from Stoic
thought and a concept represented by nouns or verbs that have the Greek
root sta-/ste- (p. 132). God is motionless and unchanging, but the foolish
human is quite the opposite. Nevertheless, ‘every man, as Philo points out
in Praem. 62–63, is half way between wickedness and virtue’ (p. 135), and it
is this ‘mixed life’ (Her. 45–46) that is characteristic of humanity. Two other
important images come into play to express the idea of balance: the image
of the two horses and the charioteer of the soul in Plato’s Phaedrus and the
middle or ‘king’s way.’ As Philo writes in QE fr. 12, ‘the greatest happiness
(eudaimonia) is in remaining (sthenai) permanently stable and without
swerving (aklinos kai arrepos) in God only’ (p. 146).
In ‘Philo and the Nazirite,’ Antonio Cacciari analyzes the figure of the
nazirite in eight major passages: Deus 86, Ebr. 2, Somn. 1.252–53, Agr. 174,
234 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
Spec. 1.248–49, Mut. 220, Fug. 113, and Leg. 1.17. Interestingly, Philo never
uses the calque from Hebrew, which does indeed appear in the LXX.
Instead, he usually employs the circumlocution ‘the great vow’ to desig-
nate the state of being a nazirite. Perhaps this is because of Philo’s lack of
knowledge of Hebrew, but Cacciari believes that more likely it is ‘t o
represent the real significance of naziriteship, i.e., the ‘great vow’’ (p. 159).
Summarizing his findings from the above passages, Cacciari writes that ‘It
is clear enough from our survey that Philo’s interest in naziriteship is deep
and mainly concerns the following topics: (a) the significance of the nazirite
as a religious figure and the special value of his ‘vow’ (eÈxÆ); (b) the
comparison with the (high) priest; (c) the theme of defilement and last, but
not least, (d) the question regarding voluntary vs. involuntary sins’ (p. 158).
Most of the essay remains within the boundaries of the Philonic corpus and
the Hebrew scriptures, but Cacciari notes parallels in several significant
passages to Stoic and Platonic concepts and vocabulary. He concludes by
noting that ‘Philo apparently follows the same path of rabbinical literature
[in defining a nazirite], but with two main differences: he introduces the
categories of Stoic and Platonic philosophy as a tool to explain the nazirite’s
peculiarity’ (p. 166).
Roberto Radice’s essay, ‘The ‘Nameless Principle’ from Philo to Ploti-
nus: An Outline of Research,’ demonstrates ‘how rich in meanings is the
theme of ineffability’ (181). He begins with an examination of nameless-
ness as ‘above being’ (epekeina ontos) in Plotinus (Enneads V and VI) and
Plato (Parmenides). ‘For Plato, ‘being nameless’ is a negative mark that
cannot be in any way attributed to the Principle. But for Plotinus, the exact
opposite is true’ (p. 169). Radice distinguishes between two different types
of unnameability in Plotinus. In Enneads VI, ‘the argument for the unname-
ableness of the One on the grounds of its non-being leads to the need for a
name as a matter of what is useful and convenient,’ as a sort of ‘stop-gap.’
In Enneads V Plotinus makes clear that ‘above being’ is not the name of the
One; it is ‘a formula that requires us to distinguish it from every other
thing, and that inserts it into the frame of negative theology, within which it
seems possible to get a hold on it beginning with what it is not’ (p. 169).
These statements do not suffice to delineate the thought of Plotinus on this
matter, however. Radice lays out Plato’s philosophy of names, which is not
very different from that of Plotinus: both think that a name does not fully
represent the thing named (pp. 171–72). Therefore the difference between
the two does not come from their philosophies of naming. Rather, ‘it
follows from a profound change in the overall understanding of the
Principle, which is no longer posited in the ontological sphere, but in the
henological. It therefore requires a new theory of naming, and specifically the
book review section 235
Leslie Baynes
Missouri State University
Das norwegische Philo Concordance Project war eine der ersten computer-
gestützten geisteswissenschaftlichen Unternehmungen. Schon Ende der
60er Jahre begann ein Team unter Peder Borgen und Roald Skarsten, auf
der Grundlage der Cohn-Wendland-Ausgabe einen elektronisch lesbaren
Philo-Text zu erstellen, der bis 1993 schrittweise vervollständigt und mit
Suchfunktionen versehen wurde. Seit 1997 steht diese Datenbank der
Wissenschaft zur Verfügung, im Jahr 2000 wurde der Index in Buchform
236 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
Karl-Wilhelm Niebuhr
Jena
Kathy L. Gaca, The Making of Fornication: Eros, Ethics and Political Re-
form in Greek Philosophy and Early Christianity. Hellenistic Culture and
Society 40. Berkeley–Los Angeles–London: University of California
Press, 2003. xvii + 359 pages. ISBN 0-520-235999-1. Price $60 (cloth).
No one with any knowledge of the ancient world can doubt that there is a
significant difference in sexual mores between pagan Greco-Roman culture
and European culture as it developed in the West under the dominance of
biblical and Christian thought. The conventional explanation, put forward
by Foucault and other scholars, is that the Church fathers developed their
restrictive and ascetic views on sexuality by marrying biblical injunctions
with ideas of restrained desire developed by the Platonic and Stoic
philosophical traditions. In this important but flawed book, Kathy Gaca
takes this interpretation head on and presents an alternative hypothesis
centred around the notion of fornication.
Fornication is the key concept of the study. It translates the Greek
porne¤a, related to the word pÒrnh (prostitute), which in turn is derived
from the verb p°rnhmi (to offer for sale). The term is thus most neutrally
translated ‘harlotry’ or ‘whoredom’. But ever since the King James ver-
sion it has been rendered by ‘fornication’ (from the Latin fornicatio, derived
from fornix, meaning ‘arch’ or ‘cellar’ as the place of a brothel) and this is
still the case in the New Revised Standard Version used in many churches
today. It is one of the ‘works of the flesh’ listed by Paul in Galatians 5:19
and has been a key term in the development of Christian sexual ethics ever
since. Gaca argues that the term means more than just ‘unchastity’ or
238 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
man and woman have sexual relations within Christian marriage or if they
are already married to a partner who can be converted. All other sexual
relations are tantamount to idolatry. In the next chapter Gaca explores
Pauline thought further and especially the two crucial metaphors of sexual
fornication and spiritual adultery. The former goes back to the Old Testa-
ment prophets and plays on the woman as harlot, not so much in the
sexual but in the religious sense, i.e. because she worships other gods. The
second also has Old Testament roots. God’s people are like a woman who
can remain faithful to her master or can go astray. Both metaphors com-
bine to express Paul’s fervent conviction that the only way to make love
authentically is in service of the one true God. The third chapter, not quite
following chronological sequence, turns to Philo. Perceptively Gaca starts
her chapter by arguing that he does not share the purported Middle Plato-
nist lack of interest in political subjects. Philo wants to establish a city of
God based on a philosophical interpretation of the Law of Moses. His inno-
vative sexual agenda consists of combining the laws of the Pentateuch and
the ideology of fornication with the reformist and procreationist ideas of
the Pythagoreans. The key to his reinterpretation of the Bible is the way he
reads the tenth commandment, oÈk §piyumÆseiw (‘you shall not desire’) in
predominantly sexual terms, linking it to a Platonic view of desire as an
irrational force, but also taking over the biblical view that sexual activity
must be seen in religious terms and for that reason must be strictly con-
trolled. The programme that the Church fathers were to inflict on the
Western world cannot be understood without Philo’s innovative sexual
agenda.
The final part then turns to the Patristic tradition. Three figures from the
second century are analysed, Tatian, Clement of Alexandria and the little-
known Christian Platonist Epiphanes, whose treatise On justice, written
before he died at the age of seventeen, is cited by Clement in Stromateis
book 3. The three Christian thinkers form a neatly contrasting group.
Tatian is the foremost representative of Christian encratism, the life-
destroying doctrine of complete sexual renunciation. Clement’s thought is
more mainstream. He agrees with Philo that sexual desire is inherently
lawless and the cause of fornication, i.e. rebellion against God. It is so dan-
gerous in his view that it must be controlled by a form of procreationism
even more severe than that of Philo. Clement will only allow marriage and
sexual relations for people who are capable of reproduction. According to
Gaca’s interpretation, he is so opposed to the appetitive desire that he
wants Christians to engage in the sexual act for procreative purposes with-
out feeling any physical pleasure at all. Epiphanes, on the other hand, has
been unjustly vilified by Clement and the subsequent Christian tradition.
240 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
He wants to return to the communal ideals of Plato and the early Stoa,
recognizing the validity of the claims of eros within a Christian theistic
framework. The youthful thinker has the final word in the book (p. 305):
‘Not least of Epiphanes’ heretical common bonds with the philosophers
was the conviction that sexual morality should be attained through justice,
dialogue, and reasoning, not through power, commandments, possessive
metaphors, and submission.’
In a number of respects this is an impressive book. It is written with
erudition and passion. The footnotes yield ample evidence of wide reading
and mastery of many different areas of ancient religion, culture and
philosophy. I find myself in agreement with the author’s two main theses
that Philo and the early Patristic thinkers were inspired by the Septuagint in
developing their ideas on how Jews and Christians should engage in sexual
activity, and that they transformed the material on sexual reform that they
derived from Greek philosophical sources into a sexual code of conduct
that is radically different. I am also sympathetic to her thesis that religion
has been enormously influential in determining how human beings orga-
nize and regulate their affective lives and sexual practices. The main prob-
lem I have with the study is that its author overstates her case. I have three
objections.
In the first place, the book combines two projects, an analysis of how
Hellenistic Judaism and early Christianity regulated sexual conduct within
the confines of their religious convictions and an analysis of the role of the
concept of fornication (porne¤a) within that process. Gaca often implies that
the two processes are the same thing, as is implied in the title of her book.
But this is hardly the case. The use of the rhetorics of fornication is a
powerful instrument in the process of guiding or imposing sexual rules.
There can be no doubt that there is a strong association of porneia with
polytheism and idolatry. As the Wisdom of Solomon pithily states, ‘the
invention of idols is the beginning of fornication’ (14:12, cited on p. 152,
199). As a concept, therefore, the way porneia is used often only makes
sense if one takes the religious context into account. But Gaca goes a step
further when she states (p. 20): ‘Porne¤a as ‘fornication’ requires biblical
monotheism to be intelligible as a sexual rule, insofar as sexual intercourse
and procreation are fornicating, and forbidden, by virtue of not being
dedicated to the Lord alone.’ Here the concept takes on a life of its own
and becomes reified in a way that James Barr protested against in his
epochal The Semantics of Biblical Language. It is not necessarily the case that
every time the term porneia is used, the entire conceptual baggage postu-
lated by Gaca is implicit as well. In the case of Philo, for example, the reader
might be quite surprised to discover that he makes virtually no use of the
book review section 241
term porne¤a and the equivalent verb porneue¤n at all (only four texts in all).
Although Philo certainly wants to restrict bodily desires and to regulate
sexual practices, I doubt that the concept of fornication was important for
him at all. It certainly needs to be proven that every time he speaks about
desire and pleasure he has spiritual fornication in mind, as is affirmed on
p. 216.
Secondly, the study is marked by a prevalence of strong language and
relentless rhetoric which makes it unpleasant to read. One can hardly doubt
that this is a deliberate stylistic and strategic choice. As the reference to
Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale on p. 269 indicates, this book has a
sub-text of feminist polemic against modern American conservative Chris-
tianity which barely manages to remain below the surface of the scholarly
text and bubbles up at regular intervals, particularly when discussing the
thought of Clement, who is seen as the most important factor in determin-
ing the direction of mainstream Christianity. We read, for example, that
Clement constructs ‘a bleak basilica’ (p. 269) and proposes ‘the demoniza-
tion of appetitive sexual desire’ (p. 289). The following play on words is not
untypical of Gaca’s style (p. 291): ‘To preserve the church’s chastity as
Christ’s monogamous bride, he [Clement] attacked Epiphanes’ arguments
as the fornicating den of iniquity. Epiphanes, Plato and the early Stoics,
however, give thoughtful reasons for regarding Clement’s biblically based
marriage system as the sacred den of inequity that remains with us today.’
Little attempt is made to do justice to Clement’s thought as a theologically
and philosophically mature construction. For example Gaca claims that
Clement’s God is a ‘singular masculine entity’ (p. 270). Yet Clement in his
negative theology certainly regards God as beyond gender, and is even
prepared to refer to God as ‘mother’ as well as ‘father’ (cf. Quis dives 37.2;
I owe the point to Eric Osborn).
Thirdly, as the author recognizes in the Introduction (p. 10), her study is
‘oriented towards texts and their prescriptions… not towards actual sexual
practices’. She rightly goes on to affirm that this approach reflects the
literate and even bookish nature of early Christian sexual morality. It is
ironical, therefore, that the author frequently does not allow the texts she
bases her argument on to speak for themselves. Instead she imposes her
interpretation on them in such a way that the reader is frequently misled
into thinking that what she says is found in the text of the author being
studied. I shall illustrate my objection with regard to the way that Philo is
interpreted (but the same applies to the way Paul, Clement and the other
Christian thinkers are read). Here are a number of examples.
(i) It is argued that sexual desire can be tamed by diet and that Moses’
dietary laws are the one sure regimen that reduces sexual desire. But this
242 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
is not said in the texts cited, Spec. 4.85, 95–96, 100–118 (‘belly’ in 96 does
not refer to the genitals because the context talks about food and drink).
Spec. 3.9 talks about passionate sexual desire and even about unchaste
behaviour with one’s own wife, but it has nothing to do with diet.
(ii) On p. 198 we read that ‘Philo’s Tenth Commandment is innovative
as a Decalogue rule because it valorizes sexual desire as the main source
of wickedness.’ On the next page she adds: ‘Sexual desire is inherently
wicked and its primary yearning is to break away from the regulatory
confines of the Pentateuch.’ It is of course true that Philo makes
numerous negative remarks about desire and sexual desire in particular.
But you will not find any grounds for these statements in his treatment
of the Tenth commandment in Spec. 4.78–100, the only text (apart from
Decal. 173) cited.
(iii) On p. 200 we read: ‘For Philo… the ‘origin of wrongdoing’ and ‘of
violation of the Law’ (Spec. 4.84, Opif. 151–2) is innate sexual desire and
its tendency to excessive pleasure, as Plato argues, not the worship of
competing gods in the vicinity.’ This is a difficult sentence to understand,
especially in the comparison it makes between Philo and Plato, but what
Philo says at Opif. 152 is that ‘this desire [for sexual relations] gave rise to
bodily pleasure, which is the starting-point for wicked and law-breaking
deeds’ (my translation).
(iv) Gaca affirms on p. 202: ‘The biblical whore Pleasure as Philo concep-
tualises her, however, is no ordinary woman and the pleasure that he
fears is not generically appetitive. She is the goddess Aphrodite and her
pleasure is sexual.’ No evidence is given for this statement and there is
no evidence to give. Philo only mentions Aphrodite twice in all his
works, once in a reference to the morning star in the context of a
polemic against polytheism (Decal. 54), once in a reference to Plato’s
Symposium (Contempl. 59).
(v) On p. 206 we read: ‘Once the wife’s menstrual period ends, how-
ever, Philo exhorts the husband to take courage and sow as he sees fit to
help produce a flourishing crop of children in the Lord.’ This statement
is not found in Spec. 3.33, where Philo writes: ‘But if the menstruation
stops, he [the man] may take heart and sow his seed, no longer fearing
destruction of what is deposited.’ Remarkably Gaca does not draw
attention to one text that does give support to her position. In Spec. 3.36
Philo states that those who decide to marry women whose barrenness
has been proven in fact copulate like pigs or goats ‘and they should be
inscribed in the lists of the impious as adversaries of God’. This harsh
text is the best example I have found of how Philo takes over the
religiously inspired sexual ethic of the Pentateuch.
book review section 243
(vi) Another chilling Philonic text is found at Spec. 3.51, where Philo goes
further than the LXX text in stating that harlots should be stoned to
death. He calls such a person a ‘communal defilement’, but nowhere
does he say that ‘women who become prostitutes are in rebellion
against God’. What we read is that they ‘corrupt the graces of nature,
which should make them the ornament of goodness’.
The upshot of all this is that the reader cannot simply assume that what is
attributed to Philo is actually said by him. Naturally there has to be latitude
for interpretation, but the basis of the argument has to be in the texts and
they have to be the starting-point. In this regard Gaca’s study compares
unfavourably with the volume recently published by William Loader
entitled The Septuagint, Sexuality and the New Testament (Grand Rapids 2004),
which covers much of the same ground. Loader argues that the Septuagint
created a new emphasis on sexuality compared with the Hebrew Bible and
this is taken over by Philo and New Testament authors, including Paul. So
there is some interesting agreement with Gaca’s thesis. But the method
differs. Loader bases his analysis on a direct and meticulous examination of
the texts in question.
I conclude that Gaca’s study is an important study on an important
topic. Because of the aggressiveness of its rhetoric, it is not a pleasure to
read. And because its method of analysing and interpreting texts is flawed,
it is to be used with caution.
David T. Runia
Queen’s College
Melbourne
Steven Weitzman has written a remarkably fresh and original book on the
strategies of survival in ancient Judaism in the face of foreign occupation
and physical destruction. He formulates the topic as ‘the efforts of early
Jews to preserve their religious traditions,’ but he takes this as a case study
of the universal problem of maintaining tradition. He focuses especially on
the problems posed by foreign rule and on threats to the Jerusalem
Temple.
The study is divided into eight chapters. The first deals with the Babylo-
nian destruction of Jerusalem in 586 b.c.e. How, asks Weitzman, did the
Temple cult survive such an experience? His concern is not with ‘what
244 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
really happened’ but with the ways in which ancient Jews coped with the
situation by telling stories that asserted that the Temple’s contents had
survived, either in hiding or in Babylon, and became available again as links
to tradition. He notes a similar phenomenon in ancient Babylonia. The
Book of Ezra claims that Persia played a key role in the restoration, and this
is not implausible in light of the evidence from Elephantine. In the
Hellenistic period, the list of hidden vessels was expanded to include the ark
of the covenant. In a somewhat different vein, Weitzman notes the story in
1 Esdras that Zerubbabel won the king’s favor by his wit, which simul-
taneously mocked the king and flattered him.
The second chapter deals with the Maccabean crisis. Here Weitzman
leaves aside the question of the motives behind the persecution, and
focuses instead on the tactics of the Hasmoneans in their shifting relations
with the Seleucid kings. The emphasis is on the opportunism of the Jewish
leaders, but Weitzman argues that this required more than pragmatism. It
also required imagination, ‘an ability to reconceptualize a sacrilegious
enemy as a pious supporter,’ as in the account of the death of Antiochus
Epiphanes in 2 Maccabees.
The third chapter deals with Jewish strategies for dealing with Roman
rule, by depicting the rulers as friendly and well-disposed and, in the cases
of Herod and Agrippa, by cultivating personal relationships with the empe-
rors. Weitzman analyzes at length the speech attributed to Agrippa in the
Legatio ad Gaium, especially with regard to the affectation of candor,
designed to characterize Agrippa as a friend rather than as a flatterer. The
politics of friendship, however, failed in the years leading up to the Jewish
revolt.
The fourth chapter deals with another aspect of the Roman threat.
Because of their ‘addiction to visual stimulation,’ the Romans wanted to
gaze on the holy things that should be kept hidden. Weitzman argues that
Jews developed ‘an alternative to physical obstruction, a way to satisfy
Roman eyes without allowing them to violate the Temple’ (p. 83). This was
the technique of ekphrasis, borrowed from Greek and Roman authors who
used it ‘to convey the visual experience of seeing a spectacle or a great
work of art in writing.’ So Philo and Josephus (and already the Letter of
Aristeas) describe at length the spectacle of the Temple, and its effect on
Gentiles such as Marcus Agrippa, grandfather of Agrippa. The Jewish
writers were careful, however, to restrict the description of the spectacle to
the exterior of the Temple, and to protect the Holy of Holies. This tech-
nique was effective only for a time. After the conquest of Jerusalem, the
contents of the Temple were displayed for all to see in the triumph of Titus,
and depicted forever on the arch erected in his memory.
book review section 245
John J. Collins
Yale University
There are a significant number of concepts that are first attested in Philo in
a form that we know well today. For example, he is the first to state that
the Platonic ideas are the thoughts of God; the first to articulate the via
book review section 247
negativa, and the first to use conscience in a sense that begins to approach a
modern understanding. This revised and edited translation (originally writ-
ten in Afrikaans) of a dissertation submitted to the University of Pretoria in
1996, explores the last of these in concert with the Pauline usage. The disser-
tation was directed by Andrie du Toit; the committee included Hans-Josef
Klauck and Johann Thom.
The work sets out to trace the early evolution of conscience through its
linguistic development and the interaction of the linguistic developments
with changing conceptual frameworks. It thus combines a traditional
philological approach with conclusions reached in cognitive sciences that
study the ways in which human beings process information. Throughout
the monograph Bosman devotes equal attention to the philological and
conceptual aspects of the terms, although the work is more attentive to
philological matters than to cognitive theories. For those of us for whom
method should be a means to an end rather than the end itself, this is
welcome.
Chapters one and two are preliminary statements that set out the basic
task of the work and its orientation (chapter one) and then situate the pro-
posed contribution within the history of scholarship (chapter two). Bosman
restricts his focus to the suvnoida group, particularly the substantival forms
suneivdhsi~ and suneidov~. While the verb form is common prior to the first
century b.c.e., there are only a handful of examples of the substantival
forms prior to that century. Philo is the first author to use suneidov~ with
any regularity, while Paul is the first Christian author to use suneivdhsi~.
These linguistic facts are what led Bosman to focus on these two writers.
He wisely concludes that while they are the first authors to use the terms
on a sustained basis, neither should be credited with the creation of the
concept ‘conscience.’ Both writers assumed that their readers understood
the terms, assumptions that required widespread awareness of the terms
and the concepts attached to them. They do, however, represent a decisive
moment in the evolution of the concept, at least based upon the evidence
that we have. It is important to remember that we know far less about
Hellenistic philosophy than Plato and Aristotle; our evidence is largely
fragmentary.
Bosman surveys the study of conscience from the early centuries to the
present to help the reader understand how previous treatments viewed the
origin of the concept and the contributions of Philo and Paul. His survey of
scholarship concentrates on Luther, Kähler, and four twentieth century
studies: Pierce, Stelzenberger, Maurer (TDNT), and the well-known mono-
graph of Eckstein. Bosman is aware of other major studies, e.g., Nikipro-
wetzky, Wallis, and Klauck on conscience in Philo, and interacts with them
248 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
present, i.e., when a person knows that they have done or intend to do
something contrary to reason, the conscience rebukes them. If a person is
unaware that an action is wrong, the conscience does not function. Philo
thus has an ‘ethical intellectualism.’ God has a role as the one who sets the
standards and avenges wrongs.
Bosman’s treatment of Philo is careful and incisive. This does not mean
that he will win assent on all issues or that he has written the final word.
For example, he does not provide any indication of the importance of
suneidotov~ in Ios.: it appears 7 times in this single treatise (47, 48, 68, 195, 215,
262, 265), more than any other treatise of Philo. Why? The use enables Philo
to focus on the inner decision of Joseph who rejected the seductions of the
Egyptian woman (47, 48, 68) and sets up a contrast in the latter part of the
treatise with the conscience of his brothers (262). It is also worth asking
whether Joseph as the ideal politician forms a contrast with Flaccus (Flacc.
7) and Isidorus (Flacc. 145) who represent negative images of politicians.
Bosman devotes another long chapter to Paul (chapter six). Unlike Philo
who preferred the Attic participial formulation, Paul had a predilection for
substantive suneivdhsi~ which he used 14 times (he also used the verb once).
The range of meaning in Paul is notorious: some think that the term should
be translated in various ways while others want to provide a single English
translation. Bosman prefers to recognize the semantic flexibility of the term
in Paul, but thinks that it may have a single meaning. His analysis of Paul
follows the same pattern as his treatment of Philo: he works through the
texts and then systematizes his findings. The bulk of Paul’s usages occur in
his treatment of the eating of meat in 1 Cor 8:1–11:1, a situation that per-
haps served as a catalyst for the Apostle’s thinking. Like Philo, Paul knew
the traditional association with parrhsiva. However, unlike Philo’s negative
orientation in which a bad conscience might restrict frank-speaking, Paul’s
conscience could bear witness to his parrhsiva (see 2 Cor 1:12). Similarly,
both knew conscience as an inner court of law, but Paul understood the
court to be neutral; he does not have the close association with e[l;egco~ that
we find in Philo. Both made connections with intellectual processes, al-
though again in different ways: Philo associated conscience with nou`~ and
lovgo~ (mind and the Logos); Paul linked suneiv d hsi~ with gnw`si~ and
ajlhvqeia (knowledge and truth). The two are thus quite similar in their basic
orientation, although Paul thinks of conscience in a much more neutral way
than his Alexandrian counterpart.
The work concludes with a final chapter that summarizes the findings
(chapter seven). A reader might find it useful to begin by first reading
chapter seven and then reading chapters one through six before reading
seven again. It would provide the reader with an orientation that will help.
book review section 251
Gregory E. Sterling
University of Notre Dame
The Studia Philonica Annual XVII (2005) 252–253
David T. Runia
Queen’s College
University of Melbourne, Australia
1 Items of general interest to Philo scholars to be included in this section can be sent to
the editor, David Runia (contact details in Notes on Contributors below).
news and notes 253
David T. Runia
Melbourne
The Studia Philonica Annual XVII (2005) 254–257
NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Ishay Rosen-Zvi is a post doctoral fellow in the Scholion Center for Jewish
Studies in the Hebrew University, Jerusalem and the Shalom Hartman
Institute. His postal address is: Shalom Hartman Institute, 12 Gedalyahu
Alon St., Jerusalem 93113, I s r a e l ; his electronic address is
yishay@shi.org.il.
INSTRUCTIONS TO CONTRIBUTORS
Authors and Book reviews can only be considered for publication in The
Studia Philonica Annual if they rigorously conform to the guidelines
established by the editorial board. For further information see also the
website of the Annual:
http://www.nd.edu/~philojud
1. The Studia Philonica Annual accepts articles for publication in the area
of Hellenistic Judaism, with special emphasis on Philo and his Umwelt.
Articles on Josephus will be given consideration if they focus on his relation
to Judaism and classical culture (and not on primarily historical subjects).
The languages in which the articles may be published are English, French
and German. Translations from Italian or Dutch into English can be
arranged at a modest cost to the author.
2. Articles and reviews are to be sent to the editors as email attach-
ments. For the formatting of submitted material the following formats can
be accepted:
(a) Apple Macintosh, formatted preferably in MS-Word, using GreekKeys
(traditional or unicode) or SuperGreek–SuperHebrew;
(b) Microsoft Windows formatted in Word. Users of Nota Bene or Word
Perfect are requested to submit a copy exported in a format compatible with
Word.
In all cases it is imperative that authors give full details about the word
processor and foreign language fonts used and that, if their manuscript
contains Greek or Hebrew material, a hard copy be sent by mail or by fax.
This is not required if authors are able to send pdf versions of their manu-
scripts to the editors. No handwritten Greek or Hebrew can be accepted.
Authors are requested not to vocalize their Hebrew (except when neces-
sary) and to keep their use of this language to a reasonable minimum. It
should always be borne in mind that not all readers of the Annual can be
expected to read Greek or Hebrew. Transliteration is encouraged for
incidental terms.
3. With regard to the citation of scholarly references the Annual em-
ploys the conventions embodied in the following examples (note (i) that no
publishers’ names are given, (ii) for articles single quotation marks are
used, and (iii) that books and journals are italicized, series are not):
A. Mendelson, Secular Education in Philo of Alexandria, Monographs of the Hebrew
Union College 7 (Cincinnati 1982) 15–27.
Y. Amir, ‘The Transference of Greek Allegories to Biblical Motifs in Philo’, in F. E.
Greenspahn, E. Hilgert, B. L. Mack (edd.), Nourished with Peace: Studies in
instructions to contributors 259
(d) Classical and Patristic authors should be cited in the manner recom-
mended by the three Oxford lexica:
H. G. Liddell, R. Scott, H. S. Jones (edd.), A Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford
1940 9);
P. G. W. Glare (ed.), The Oxford Latin Dictionary (Oxford 1982);
G. W. H. Lampe (ed.), A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford 1961).
Preferred abbreviations for Josephus, however, are AJ, BJ, c. Ap., and Vita,
but English abbreviations (Antiquities, War, etc.) are permitted. Once again
consistency is the first requirement.
ABD The Anchor Bible Dictionary, 6 vols. (New York etc. 1992)
AC L’Antiquité Classique
ACW Ancient Christian Writers
AGJU Arbeiten zur Geschichte des antiken Judentums und des
Urchristentums
AJPh American Journal of Philology
AJSL American Journal of Semitic Languages
ALGHJ Arbeiten zur Literatur und Geschichte des hellenistischen Judentums
ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt
APh L’Année Philologique (founded by Marouzeau)
BAGD A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and other Early Christian
literature, edited by W. Bauer, W. F. Arndt, F. W. Gingrich, F. W.
Danker (Chicago 19792)
262 the studia philonica annual 17 (2005)
BDB Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament, edited by F. Brown, S.
R. Driver, C. A. Briggs (Oxford 1952)
B ibO r Bibliotheca Orientalis
BJRL Bulletin of the John Rylands Library
BJS Brown Judaic Studies
BMCR Bryn Mawr Classical Review (electronic)
BZAW Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
BZNW Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft
BZRGG Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Religions- und Geistesgeschichte
CAH The Cambridge Ancient History, edited by J. B. Bury et al., 16 vols.
(Cambridge 1923– )
CBQ The Catholic Biblical Quarterly
CBQ.MS The Catholic Biblical Quarterly. Monograph Series
CChr Corpus Christianorum, Turnhout
CIG Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum, edited by A. Boeckh, 4 vols. in 8
(Berlin 1828–77)
CIJ Corpus Inscriptionum Judaicarum, edited by J. B. Frey, 2 vols. (Rome
1936–52)
CIL Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (Berlin 1862– )
CIS Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum (Paris 1881–1962)
CP h Classical Philology
CP J Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum, ed. by V. Tcherikover and A. Fuks, 3
vols. (Cambrige Mass. 1957–64)
CQ The Classical Quarterly
CR The Classical Review
CRINT Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum
CPG Clavis Patrum Graecorum, edited by M. Geerard, 5 vols. (Turnhout
1974–87)
CPL Clavis Patrum Latinorum, edited by E. Dekkers (Turnhout 1954)
CSCO Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium
DA Dissertation Abstracts
DBSup Dictionnaire de la Bible, Supplément (Paris 1928– )
DSpir Dictionnaire de Spiritualité
EncJud Encyclopaedia Judaica, 16 vols. (Jerusalem 1972)
EPRO Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain
FrGH Fragmente der Griechische Historiker, edited by F. Jacoby
GCS Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller, Leipzig
GLAJJ M. Stern, Greek and Latin authors on Jews and Judaism, 3 vols. (Jerusalem
1974–1984)
GRBS Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies
HKNT Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament, Tübingen
HNT Handbuch zum Neuen Testament, Tübingen
HR History of Religions
HThR Harvard Theological Review
HUCA Hebrew Union College Annual
JAAR Journal of the American Academy of Religion
JAOS Journal of the American Oriental Society
JbAC Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum
JBL Journal of Biblical Literature
JHI Journal of the History of Ideas
JHS The Journal of Hellenic Studies
JJS The Journal of Jewish Studies
instructions to contributors 263
RQ Revue de Qumran
RSR Revue des Sciences Religieuses
SB H. L. Strack and P. Billerbeck, Kommentar zum Neuen Testament aus
Talmud und Midrasch, 6 vols. in 7 (Munich 1922–61)
SBLDS Society of Biblical Literature. Dissertation Series
SBLMS Society of Biblical Literature. Monograph Series
SBLSPS Society of Biblical Literature. Seminar Papers Series
SC Sources Chrétiennes
Sem Semitica
SHJP E. Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ,
revised edition, 3 vols. in 4 (Edinburgh 1973–87)
SJLA Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity
SNTSMS Society for New Testament Studies. Monograph Series
SR Studies in Religion
StUNT Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments
SVF Stoicorum veterum fragmenta, edited by J. von Arnim
TDNT Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, 10 vols. (Grand Rapids
1964–76)
THKNT Theologischer Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament, Berlin
TRE Theologische Realenzyklopädie, Berlin
TSAJ Texte und Studien zum Antike Judentum
TU Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur,
Berlin
TWNT Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament, 10 vols. (Stuttgart
1933–79)
VChr Vigiliae Christianae
VChr.S Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae
VT Vetus Testamentum
WUNT Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament
ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
ZKG Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte
ZKTh Zeitschrift für Katholische Theologie
ZNW Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft
ZRGG Zeitschrift für Religions- und Geistesgeschichte